


(Ib Sine Vii) Anticipate Antipathy

by ErrorMarigenous



Series: Ib Sine Vii Anthem [1]
Category: The Invisible Man (TV 2000)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cosmic Horror Elements, Dealing with Consequences, Finding Ways To Deal, Focus On Platonic Relationships, Frequent Nightmare Sequences, Gen, Just a lot of needles, Manipulation, Medical Experimentation, Medical Inaccuracies, References to Suicide, Science Fiction, Use of needles, inaccurate science
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-08-23 02:23:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 33,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16610075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErrorMarigenous/pseuds/ErrorMarigenous
Summary: "The silver mist in the air is thick. It clings to his skin and sends ice through his veins. All the stars are red, and the moon a perfect disk, alight with burning silver and a pupil of rubbery, grey flesh.The serpent's centre catches around a pillar, it snaps through both the stone and it's body. Bores through the earth, leaves a piece behind.He can see it's pupiless eye as it gets close. As it starts encircling. Wrapping round and round the remains of reality. There's him, and it, and the remnants.He feels-"





	1. (I) Blood is

**Author's Note:**

> Initially just a character exploration that got out of hand, it's now a complicated AU, set in 2018-2020-ish and with the characters pasts adjusted to match. 
> 
> Both seasons will be adapted with major changes in character relationships, interactions and events, while mostly running parallel to canon. 
> 
> Ultimately, the goal is to refresh and adapt the story while also going more in depth to the consequences or certain actions and the relationships between characters, before branching into its own thing after adapting season 2. 
> 
> There's speculation on the more supernatural aspects of the setting, as well as attempts to clarify them with the science fiction feel. A more in depth examination of what exactly the gland is doing to Darien and how it works. A look at how and why Chyrsalis is what it is, and what other forces might be present in the setting, and, finally, a lot of blatant attempts at manipulation.

The first threads of consciousness are dregs and grains of the odd sort of distortion only available between the moment of a nightmares end, and actually being awake enough to tell it’s over. Darien's stock still in his bed, phantom touches and knives raking at his skull and fear keeping him from moving just yet. It takes him a moment to settle his heart, even his breathing, and blink the almost monochrome monotony from his eyes.

His room starts looking less like a dip into the realm of Escher, and more like the familiar library/study/kitchen multiclass he's forced to manage. Not many multi room apartments to buy on his variable budget. Even still, it's familiar and comforting. He can read the titles of his books from his bed and takes heart in that. With the frequency of his nightmares and the lingering of dreams that feel too real, he knows a thing or two about telling reality from his subconscious fake. Writing, for example, gets weird when dreaming, cause that part of the brain is busy resting, not spinning out novels. So. He can read the book titles. Which means it's not a nightmare, anymore.

He closes his eyes, counts to three then roles off his bed and flat onto the floor. The sudden cold and impact do more to wake him then any other routine has ever managed, so he sticks to it, and clambers back up to his feet, fishing his phone off the nightstand and preemptively switching off the alarm set for an hour from now.

At least he got _some_ sleep.

He scrounges up his equipment and sets about getting ready for the job. It should be simple. He's circled the place enough times and plotted out a pretty clear map, he knows the owner will be out of town when he hits it, and he has confirmation on where the safe is. By all accounts he's good to go.

The nightmare has him on edge, though.

He's never really been bothered by medical equipment or needles before, but in this dream he'd gotten jabbed with needles an obscene amount of times. It hadn't even been so much that he was _afraid_ of the needles, either. He'd _wanted_ them. It was the scalpel and dentist chair from hell that set him off. Something getting pulled out of him. Blood, he'd assumed, cause of the needles, but in the harsh light of wakeful thinking, blood doesn't sound _correct_. Whatever it was, he didn't want anyone touching it, and then everything had devolved into invisible grasping hands, cold and harsh around his throat. It felt like choking, but in the distant, non pain inducing way of dreams.

He rubs at his throat as he clambers out of the shower. He’s letting the dream bother him too much. It isn't likely to have meant anything. He knows well enough by now that unless a dreams ‘ _symbolism_ ’ is immediately obvious, it probably doesn't actually mean anything. It's just the subconscious stringing together thoughts into a narrative. His past dives into the matter of dream symbolism had only made it abundantly clear that it's mostly crap. So, there isn't any point scouring his subconscious for explanation. He has a job to prepare for.

He parks the car some distance from the house itself, and realises he's still an hour early. He considers waiting before heading in, but a minute of restless fiddling puts that plan on hold. He checks for anyone nearby, slips out of the car and down the adjacent alley, stepping on the balls of his feet and slipping through his pre-prepared hole in the fence.

The front door of the house is alarmed, so he's going to climb up to the balcony, pick the lock on the doors there and get inside.

He's fit and practiced enough that the exercise gives him no trouble, and the lock clicks open with the satisfying _shift_ of metals that rests pleasantly in his muscle memory and some hind part of brain that enjoys the _click_.

He pads downstairs soundlessly, slipping down the hall and into the kitchen to pull the picture free of the safe it's hiding. The safe's electronic, and he doesn't quite have the budget to pick up a fancy little toy to brute force it's combinations, so he's going for something a little more old fashioned.

He sets to unscrewing the input panel from the safe, and once it's free, in the small cavity left, he sets the explosive against one corner, and vanishes down the hall to wait for it to pop.

The sound is a mimicry of thunder, and the folding of metal, and then there's a very different sound.

A noise of startle, a scream cut off, followed by a thud, and gasping.

Darien freezes. 

Then forces himself to move, swinging down the hall to find an elderly citizen on the ground. He's bleeding, and can't seem to stand. For the briefest of moments, he considers leaving. Turning on his heel and walking out of there. Grabbing the money and letting the guy fend for himself. It would be the easiest thing in the world. Hell, it'd be the sensible thing to do. What does he care about some stranger, bleeding on the floor?

Sensible or not, he's not going to leave the guy to die. He pulls out his phone and his first aid kit from his bag. Calling the hospital as he tries to halt the bleeding.

-

Things pass in a bit of a blur after that. A number of events that roll straight into another and he _knows_ he's screwed. Especially when Mr Senior Citizen claims it was attempted murder.  Seeing as it's known thief versus rich, harmless Senior, it's not really a surprise he gets done for it. Course after he screws up the timing on picking his way out of the holding cell, he gets dumped somewhere a little more secure.

Then it's just a matter of waiting till he's locked away for the rest of his life and Kevin and just about every adult he knew as a teen is proved right. He supposes it was inevitable.

He settles back against the wall, decides to at least try and catch up on the sleep he missed because of the nightmare earlier.

He's only had his eyes shut a minute when the cell door swings inwards and things get _odd_.

Kevin looks just as prim and proper as he always has. Dressed in a well fitted suit, hair slicked into an out of the way ‘do, and perfect round little glasses balanced on his nose. His hands are settled behind his back, and the door is closed behind him.

Instantly, Darien is on alert. It's been ten years since they so much as talked, and it ended in the same argument it always did, but that's only the first oddity. There's also the fact that Kevin is just allowed to walk into solitary cells with supposed attempted murderers and no one batts an eye. And of course, the paper in his almost hidden behind his back and the look in his eyes.

Their mum, and later their Aunt and Uncle used to describe the look as _'Earnest’_ , and _'Precocious’_ , but Darien knows better. It's the look he has before a breakthrough. Before one of his little experiments bears fruit. It's ‘ _Expectation_ ’, and all the cold, clinical _hardness_ of a scientist. It's not a look Darien wants pointed at him. He can almost feel the dream prickle of scalpels under those dissecting eyes.

He makes a show of blinking slowly, just once, before speaking, “What're you doing here?”

“Why didn't you call me?” Kevin spins back on him. The concern in his voice might even be sincere, but, Darien can only hear the dare in it, and the _disappointment_. It has his hackles up instantly.

“Last time we talked was ten years ago,” Darien reminds him, voice light. None of his muddled feelings spilling into the casual tilt of his head or into his tone. He always had that over on Kevin, at least. Kevin of course, always took it to mean he wasn't taking things seriously, but- “and you told me, and I quote ‘ _You’re a lazy, good for nothing, callous, incompetent, Darien; the sooner you're out of my sight the better, because I don't want to see you again ever. I refuse to be dragged down by you anymore. I don't care if you're dying. Don't contact me._ ’ end quote.” -it’s just easier to appear not to care then to deal with everything that came with feelings.

Kevin sighs, annoyed, and looks off to the side, “Yes, yes, we're all _very_ impressed by your memory, Darien, but maybe if you'd used that and actually applied yourself, you wouldn't be in this situation.”

Darien shrugs. There's no point in arguing that he _had_ applied himself, maths, algebra, chemistry, physics and all that just didn't make sense, it's an argument they've had before, and as Kevin has said, ‘ _Maths and science are easy, you're just not trying_.’ so he won't argue. He doesn't need to be inadvertently told how stupid he is _again_.

Kevin sighs, again, “Just going to shrug at me, huh?”

Darien shrugs again, unable to keep the slight quirk from his lips.

“This is _serious_ , Darien!” Kevin doesn't shout, but his voice does raise and he steps forwards, “They're putting you away for _life_ ”

“I'm handling it.” Darien grins, smug. It's an easy shot, guaranteed to rile Kevin up. He's not sure why it pisses his brother off so much, but it does, and any ammunition is good in Darien's book.

“Handl-” Kevin starts then splutters, before making a wide sweeping gesture with the paper, “This is handling it? _You're in jail_!”

“What do you care, Kevin? It's been ten years, and you wanted me gone.” Darien prods, “This'll be everything you ever wanted. Me, out of your life.”

Kevin pauses, clenches, then unclenches his free hand, looking a little confused, “What are you talking about?”

“You told me to leave,” Darien says, glaring, “So I _left_.”

“What? Darien, that was just an argument. I didn't mean-” Kevin starts, before shaking his head, and saying in a good humoured way that seems to conflict with the words themselves, “Don't try and make this _my_ fault.”

“Oh, well who's fault is it?” Darien bites out, climbing to his feet.

“It was an argument. It didn't _mean_ anything.” Kevin says, shaking his head again, “And it's not my fault you're in jail-”

Darien had forgotten how _very_ much Kevin could set him off, and he grounds out, “I didn't say _that_ was your fault.”

At the same time, Kevin continues, “-regardless, I can get you _out_.”

“Oh, this'll be good. Let's hear it.” Darien forces his body back into the more relaxed posture, spreads his arms out as he slides down the wall to sit down, and ignores the thrumming tension and need to _pace_ under his skin.

Kevin huffs out an annoyed sigh through his nose, crouches next to Darien, and hands him the paper. Darien skims it, then takes a few seconds to read it properly. A double take as the information registers.

“Full pardon in exchange for submitting to be a test subject for QS20300.” Darien reads, raising an eyebrow, “Well, what is QS-” he glances at the paper and reads the numbers off, “-20300?”

Kevin shakes his head, “It's classified.”

“Oh. Wow, that- that just fills me with confidence, Kevin.” Darien says, frowning.

“Look, you’ll learn what the project is if you agree. And the alternative is rotting in jail for the rest of your life.” Kevin argues, “It's not like you have much of a choice.”

Darien narrows his eyes, the paper crinkling where his grip tightens, “What would be done to me, Kevin?”

“Nothing I couldn't reverse-” Kevin tries.

Darien pushes back, “I'm not submitting to play _labrat_ for some random biochemistry experient without even a hint of what you'll be doing to me.”

Kevin's expression shifts slightly, and Darien realises all at once that he's lost, “Just some minor surgery. Completely undoable. You'd be in no danger. Nothing _lasting_ would be done, and at the end of it, you walk away a free man.”

“That's easy, huh?” Darien says, “That _safe_?”

“You're not the first human test subject for this experiment Darien. I assure you, you'll be safe. I just want to help my brother out. No ulterior motives, you have my word.” Kevin smiles, fond and honest, “Do we have a deal?”

Really, Darien should've known something was up when Kevin gave him his word. He only does that when he really wants people to believe him.

Darien nods, takes Kevin's hand and pumps it once, putting aside the feeling of something being _wrong_ and focusing instead on the fact he’ll be getting out of jail, and that he'll have the opportunity to finally reconcile with his older brother.

He manages to cling to those thoughts right up until he meets one Arnaud de Fohn. He's slimy, not visually, but in some other innate way Darien can't place. Appearance wise he's moderately attractive, dark hair and dark eyes, a thin, pale face and prominent cheekbones. Nothing about him _looks_ like a con or a manipulator, but something about him feels _acrid_ , and Darien just knows the guys a slimeball. Probably stealing money from the project. Or stealing information. Either way, Darien's not likely to be threatened by him. He'll keep up his suspicions, but he won't needlessly antagonise him.

Once he's settled in, he's given little time to relax before he's brought out to prep for the surgery. Arnaud, lovely Arnaud, is set to give him a number of shots before the anesthesia. Darien watches the first one get brought over, and considers it. He's not a chemist by any sense, and he certainly can't tell what's in the needle just by looking, so he takes the next best option available to him.

He asks, “What's in that thing?”

Arnaud takes his arm, presses the needle in, “Unfortunately Mr Fawkes, I'm afraid these substances are classified. I _can_ tell you, however, that they are to help smooth over the surgery.”

“All of them, huh?” Darien prods, as Arnaud does the same with the second needle.

“No, a few are in case of emergencies during the surgery, but we haven't had need for them yet. I wouldn't worry about them.” Arnaud says idly, grabbing the third needle.

“Well, you're not the one getting your head cut open.” Darien points out, as the third injection is taken care of.

Arnaud smiles, “Getting cold feet, Mr Fawkes? You needn't worry. You'll have the best surgeons in the country operating on you. They're very familiar with the procedure. I can promise, there will be no _unforeseen-_ ” the stress of the word strikes Darien wrong, he goes to say something as the fourth needle is removed, but Arnaud stands, “-complications.”

Arnaud backs up as the surgery team enters. Darien's flipped onto his stomach, his head carefully held in place before a mask is slipped over his mouth and he begins to fade.

-

He doesn't dream.

Or, he doesn't dream, _exactly_.

There are thoughts, and images, and the idea of the world coloured wrong, as he fades between wakefulness and healing. His body adjusting and supplying images as temporary as sand.

And then, he's awake. Groggy, out of it, and with a dull almost pain in the base of his skull, but awake.

He recognises the room. It's where his stuff had been set up in the short time before introductions and surgery.

He shifts out of bed, removing what medical equipment is attached to him, and padding lightly across the room, there's a slight weakness to his legs, but it's not as bad as it could be. Even if it does mean his steps are louder on the floor then they should be, and he stumbles a little as he walks on the balls of his feet.

The mirror shows nothing unexpected. He's not bleeding. Or horribly scarred. Or anything like that. There are bags under his eyes, which seems unfair if he's been out long enough to start weakening his muscles, but, whatever. He'll manage. He turns his head, till he can see his neck out of the corner of his eye, and spots the bandage over the almost there pain. He's about to start poking at it when he hears something _click_ open, and a winding touch of fear settles somewhere behind his chest.

He checks the door. It's locked, and it doesn't click, anyhow, so it's clearly not the source of the-

 _Something moves_. He _saw_ something move. He knows it's there. He pushes up against the mirror, wills himself to blend into the wall because oh, he thinks he knows what this is. He thinks he's gonna kill Kevin next time he sees him.

The something turns into lots of something's, which turn out to be, as he expected, _lots of spiders_.

Oh would you look at that.

None of them are spiders that would kill him if he got bit. He thinks he recognises a couple different species of wolf spider in there. Most of the spiders either aren't venomous or don't have _enough_ venom to actually kill him. Which should be a reassurance, but isn't. Because the venom is only part of the problem. He doesn't want those things anywhere near him with those awful, little legs, and too many eyes and god. He feels nauseous just thinking about it.

He can't slow his breathing. He's panicking, he knows. Been awhile since he got this scared. Probably when he caught that spider hanging on the shower head, in the middle of his shower. That little trip into terror had ended with a broken finger and also a shattered window.

God, he feels like throwing up. A little choked ball of ice in his throat makes his panic even worse, it feels like he can't breathe around it. He's choking on his imagination, stuck in a room full a spiders, with a hole in his head. He feels a little hysterical, and he might even laugh if he wasn't trying very, _very_ hard not to be here right now.

Sweat trickles down his inner arm. Colder than ice, and he can feel it prickling and gathering on the back of his neck, and under his knees. He's salivating too much and his nose feels stuffy, and neither are symptoms of a panic attack that he's used too, but that's fine. That's fine. He's absolutely _fine_.

Sweat runs down his forehead, collects in his eyebrow, then runs down to rest on his eyelashes. He can see the clump of it, dangling and blurred, and has a half second to think it looks weird before he instinctively _blinks_ and feels the sweat sting at his eyes, opening them back up and-

Ok, maybe it wasn't sweat.

Part of his vision is blurred, toned in swatches of an almost pulsating grey. The spiders in that grey vision are bright and _that's not a colour_. There's something-

they're-

It's a _colour_. It's a colour, but it's not any of _the_ colours. It's-

He raises a hand to bury his head in, half forgetting about the spiders in the confusion of everything else, but, his hand is covered in liquid silver. Or, parts of it are. Other parts he can't see at all, except for the touch of something like a faded, kind of blurry purple that's only there in the grey. Even as he watches, the silver spreads, the parts behind it turning slightly less liquid, losing their sheen, and then fading away to nothing.

He squeaks out a panicked noise. Forgets entirely about the spiders and runs for the door, hammering on it in time to his heart.

“Kevin! Kevin, what the crap is this?” He shouts, palm slapping against the metal, leaving none of the silver behind as it does so, and then he can't see his hand except for that semi purple vagueness as an outline, and if his fingers are together he can't distinguish the individual digits.

The silver spreads quickly, stealing more of his skin as it goes, and if he thought his clothes were going to be spared, he has another thing coming, as the liquid leaks through the clothes and builds a layer over them until he's completely vanished.

Like he expects to see anything, he heads back for the mirror, carefully avoiding the spiders that are now a very secondary issue. Still utterly terrifying, but _he has just turned invisible_ , so he's going to focus on that first, and ignore the spiders and the _not_ colour they give off.

His reflection is absent, he can make out his entire body out by the vague outline of purple, and tell where his limbs are through proprioception, but _nothing reflects back in the mirror_. Which, _yeeesss_ , makes sense, because he's invisible, but also, oh right, he's frigging _invisible_. So there's nothing for the mirror to show. He's not reflecting light, so he can't see himself.

He's invisible, in a room full of spiders.

Somehow his visibility or lack thereof is not having any real effect on the absolute _terror_ he still feels about the spiders.

There's just _so many_ , and they have all those legs and oh god, what if they _touch_ him?

“ _Darien ,_-” Kevin's voice comes over the speakers and momentarily freezes his panic as he remembers his murder plans. He's just turned invisible so he's _definitely_ going to kill Kevin now, “ _- can you hear me?_”

“ _Yes_.” Darien hisses out, his eyes flick towards the speakers and it's a shame he's invisible because it's a very impressive glare, “I'm _invisible_ not deaf.”

“ _Good to hear._” Kevin replies, as if he didn't hear the threat in Darien's voice, “ _Carefully approach the door, knock once you're there and we'll let you out_.”

Darien considers arguing, or saying anything, really, but it is _still_ a room full of spiders, and he wants out. Now.

He jumps back over to the door, nearly screams when a spider brushes his foot, and hammers twice on the doors before they open and he stumbles out, “Ok, ok. Ok. Ok. Ok. Lock it please. Please. Please. Please lock it.”

The door locks. He sighs a little in relief, but not much. He's still invisible, after all.

The hall to his room has been converted into another small room since he was awake. It's been fitted out almost identical to the surgery, minus the seat that clamped his head in place. He collapses on a bed, tries to even his breathing.

 _He's invisible_ , that's _fine_. That's _absolutely_ fine. No need to panic about _that_. Ha ha. Ha.

After all, Kevin said it was _all_ reversible. He'll be-

‘ _And we all know_ perfect _Kevin never lies_.’ a little twisting anxiety whispers in the back of his brain.

Ah, thanks. Thanks for that. He was trying to ignore that. He really was. This is fine. This is fine. This is fine. It's not like Kevin has ever _literally_ told him he wanted to get rid of him. This definitely isn't just some weird way of achieving fratricide. He's fine. Yep. This will all be _fine_.

“ _Darien, I'll be with you in a moment. Just try to calm down. Okay_?” Kevin says.

Darien barks out a little, petering laugh. He's edging into hysteria. Wonderful. Yes, _of course_ , Kevin. Just _calm down_. _Why didn't_ he _think of that_? Really just another demonstration of the _Fawkes family genius_.

The hall doors open, and Kevin enters looking _ecstatic_. His gaze sweeps the room.

‘ _What’s up Kevin? Looking for me?_ ’ he thinks, ‘ _Can’t fathom why you'd be having_ difficulties.’

“Darien?” It's a question, but Kevin doesn't wait for an answer, and Darien notes his voice sounds slightly odd, even without the speaker, “Now, I know you might be a little freaked out right now, but you just need to settle your heart rate and you'll become visible again.”

“Oh?” Darien replies, strained, hindbrain noticing his voice is _off_ too, “That's all. Well why didn't you just say so?”

Kevin flinches at his voice, then tries to follow it, stopping some distance from the bed and glancing around, he sighs “Darien, don't be difficult.”

“Maybe I wouldn't be being ‘ _difficult_ ’, if my brother hadn't dumped me in a room full of spiders, and turned me _invisible_!” His voice cracks. He'll feel embarrassed about it later, but now he's got anger and fear to focus on.

Kevin steps closer again, seems to notice the depression on the bed that indicates where Darien is, and looking straight at his shoulder, says, “Look, Darien, you really just need to calm down and-”

Darien interrupts “I am calm. Don't I sound calm? I feel calm. Completely calm. Just. So very, _very_ calm. Might as well be sleeping, that's, how, _calm_ , I am.” his voice keeps catching on the lump of panic in his throat, and for the first time he notices a splotch of that _not_ colour on his brother lab coat.

“Do your breathing exercises Darien.” Kevin mutters into his hand, rubbing at his forehead. Like _he_ has any right to be stressed out about this! He can still see himself.

Still. Stewing in his fear and anger won't do much of anything, so he takes a deep breath, and holds it.

Like he was taught by that first psychiatrist after mum died.

Four seconds hold. Four seconds out. Four seconds in.

He doesn't know how long it takes, and Kevin, _thankfully_ , doesn't offer any comment as he steadies himself, but eventually it stops feeling like his hearts going to hammer out of his chest, and he _can breathe again_.

He's about to say something when he _feels_ (it's not the right word for the sensation. He doesn't know if there _is_ a right word. It's like static and pins and needles and some vague _disconnect_ all at once.) something _crack_ , _shift_ and _shatter_ , and then the grey drops from his vision and for a millisecond he's covered in a mess of miniscule silver flakes, but even as he watches they seem to break up and scatter into nothing.

He's off the bed and then hugging his brother instantly, right till he remembers he's pissed off at him, at which point he lets go, steps back and _glares_ (it's not as good as the one earlier, he just knows it.).

“Kevin.” He starts. Kevin tries to interrupt, but Darien raises a hand, and Kevin quiets, “What. The _hell_. Was that?”

Kevin waits a second, checking if Darien is done, before replying, “ _That_ is project QS20300.”

“Oh.” Darien nods his head, “Oh, ok. Makes sense. Yep.” He pauses, “ _Why_?”

“ _Why_ what Darien?” Kevin asks, almost sighing once more.

“Hmm,” Darien paces a bit, “Let's start with ‘what caused that’, and work up from there.”

“We implanted a Gland-” Kevin starts and Darien can practically _hear_ the capital letter, “-in your head. It secretes a substance known as Quicksilver. The Gland is closely connected to your adrenal systems, and so, when you started producing adrenaline, it started producing Quicksilver.”

“Right.” Darien nods, “And what's _in_ the substance I just _secreted_?”

“Most of its chemical makeup is considered confidential, but I can promise there will be no ill effects from its use.” Kevin explains, and then, ever the scientist, continues, “I _can,_ however, tell you how it works. It's a semifluid substance that doesn't reflect light- like, ok, you can see me, sitting here, because the light hits me, and bounces back to your eyes, and colour is done through the diffusion of light particles-”

“Kevin, I do know highschool level science. You don't need to tell me how colour works.” Darien interjects.

Kevin pauses, a little ruffled, “I- yes. You're right. Anyway. Instead of reflecting light, Quicksilver, in its elastic form, _bends_ it. You weren't invisible because we could see through you. You were invisible because we were seeing _around_ you.”

“Oh, so basic sci-fi invisibility rules then. Sure. Got it.” Darien shrugs a shoulder.

Kevin's eyes narrow a little, annoyed, “ _Yes_. That's where the idea came from. _Regardless_ , the Quicksilver has three states, it's initial semifluid state, where it's silver and secreted, it's more elastic 'coating’ state, where it hardens slightly and bends light, and it's final 'flake’ state, where it becomes extremely fragile and breaks down into miniscule particles, it's also biodegradable, so no danger to the environment.”

“Yes, cause I was worried about the invisibility gland in my head being bad for the environment.” Darien grouses.

Kevin's lips thin, “Well, any _other_ questions?”

“Yeah, just the one,” Darien says, hand raised, “When are you taking it out?”

Kevin frowns, something _thunderous_ in his expression, but it doesn't enter his voice, which just goes quiet and cold, “This is a _huge_ advancement in science, Darien, but of course you don't _care_. That's _fine_. We'll remove it after a few more tests. We want to see how well you can control it. Once you've done that, you'll be free to go off and ruin lives again.”

Darien's back straightens, and he meets Kevin's sparking fury with a lazy grin he doesn't feel, “Oh, I ruin people's lives now, do I? And here I thought you _didn't_ want me out of yours. Was that not what the whole prison visit was about? Whose life have I so inconceivably ruined? And why on earth do you want to associate with me if I _have_? Guess they mus-”

“ _Your_ life, Darrien.” Kevin cuts in, staring up, unflinching.

 _‘-tn’t have been worth much if you're still willing to drag me out of prison in spite of that’_ the statement finishes itself in his head. Leaves him with whiplash. He recovers quickly, bites back with malice he doesn't feel, “I'll ruin my life if I want to, Kevin. We can't all have three PHD's and a recommendation from every teacher who ever taught us.”

“Oh, don't start _this_ again, Darien.” Kevin shakes his head.

‘ _You started this_.’ Darien thinks, ‘ _You didn't have to involve yourself. You could've just left me to sort my own crap if I'm_ such _a problem_.’

“You're not dumb, little brother, you just never applied yourself. You could've been _brilliant_ -”

‘ _Oh, I never applied myself? That's it, is it? It's_ my fault _I couldn't make sense of any of the numbers. It's_ my fault _the teachers never stopped comparing me to you._ My fault _I was never as good as you. You set an impossible standard and it's_ my fault _I didn't meet the mark?_ ’ he thinks viciously, ‘ _everyone wanted me to be a carbon copy of you. Even_ you _. But I wasn't you. You were_ impossible _, you were_ brilliant _, and I was nothing_.’

“-but you settled for petty thievery and a life that meant _nothing_.” Kevin spits.

It isn't fair, that Kevin can ruin his argument without even hearing it said.

Darien doesn't soften his glare, he holds on to it out of spite and rage and something thick and self depreciating, “Fine. We'll do your tests. Then it's out of my head and I'm _gone_. Properly this time, Kevin. You won't have to put up with me again.”

“Good.” Kevin says, then, taking a careful breath and relaxing himself, “Get some rest, you're still recovering from surgery. We'll start the tests tomorrow. You can sleep in here.”

Then he's out of the room and all the anger leaves with him. Air flooding into the vacuum of space. Darien practically collapses onto the bed, and tries very hard not to think about what he just implied. Tries very hard not to think about Kevin's response.

-

He manages a night without nightmares for once, waking up as Kevin comes to check on him. Then he's getting the bandages removed, getting sent off to shower and get changed into clothes someone provided for him.

It's difficult, but at just the right angle, he can see the small curl of the scar at the base of his skull. It takes a considerable amount of his self control to not start prodding at it, and instead he goes to meet with Kevin and Arnaud. They're in the surgery again, but everything surgical about it has been stripped out, instead there's a few chairs, some wheeled tables, and a desk.

“First things, we want you to go invisible again.” Kevin announces.

“Sure.” Darien mutters.

“Just to make sure you can. No point if you can't do it at will. So-”

“Are you gonna stick me in a room full of spiders again? Because Kevin, I won't be held responsible for what happens to you if you do that.”

Kevin pauses, pen raised and then, slowly shakes his head, “No. No. Of course not we're ah, doing it another way.”

He's not a _great_ liar without any time to prepare, Darien notices. Either way, he's guilted Kevin into putting a pin in the 'Drop Darien in the spider room’ plan, so Kevin's left to improvise.

Unfortunately, he's _very_ bad at it. As evidenced by the fact he resorts to B-movies.

Darien almost doesn't want to offer a solution, but, the sooner testing over, the sooner he's gland free.

As the credits roll, he sighs, “Kevin. I just need to what, get scared? That'll do it, right?”

“Uh, yes. It will. It's cause of the connection between the-” Kevin tries.

“You told me already. The connection between the quicksilver gland and the adrenal glands. I got it.” Darien cuts in, then sighs, closing his eyes, “Give me a moment.”

“What are you-” Kevin starts, but Darien ignores him.

He focuses on an old memory. On an old nightmare. He's used to his psyche pulling out crap to scare him in any variety of ways, so he's got plenty of ammo to pull from. This one, however, has been with him a while. The air had smelt damp, mulched, earthy in the way of wet leaves, and with something _rotten_ underneath. He can almost taste it. Damp earth still stirs something weary in his stomach on occasion.

He saw her face, first. It was bruised around the mouth. Her eyes were blank. They weren't _lifeless_. That's the thing, people always talked like a dead body had eyes that were _off_ somehow. But they weren't, they were just eyes, staring into space, unmoving. Still wet. Her hair was matted, a few clumps of dirt. A scratch on her cheek.

Her neck was-

She looked small. She always had been small, especially next to him and his constant growth spurts, but here she looked even smaller. Like she was a china doll someone had smashed, and all the pieces had been put together almost perfect, but there were _inches_ missing. Like she'd been taken apart so many times that the cracks had worn down.

Her hands were loose, and limp. Her clothes were stained with mud.

She was pale. That wasn't unusual, but people always talked about it. She was pale, and he could see the _thick_ blueness of her veins.

She was dead.

Things feel _blurry_ , sideways. He makes himself breathe slightly quicker, shallower. Focuses in on that frost bite terror that had burnt into his heart.

He remembers that first nightmare, the morning after. He hadn't gotten to sleep till four, anyway, but that dream had sunk it's teeth in and refused to let go.

He remembers she'd _looked_ at him. She doesn't have dead eyes in the nightmare. Doesn't have anything above her lips, and she only has lips sometimes. Just when she needs them. But she'd _looked_ at him.

Her voice is crinkling leaves, and flesh hitting flesh and the sounds translate into words because it's a dream, “ _Darien. I'll see you soon._ ”

Then he tastes flood water and rotting leaves and the dream twists into his other oldest nightmare, spiders settled in the leaves of his gut and crawling up his throat and he can _feel_ them inside. Can _feel_ her looking at him. Cold and dead hands, one on his chin, one on his throat.

Something cold sits in his mouth, trickles down his back, and it takes him a second to realise it's Quicksilver. Takes him a moment to focus on the _here_ and _now_ , even as he vanishes from sight.

Kevin's eyes light up, “Look at you!”

Ha ha.

“Very impressive, Mr Fawkes.” Arnaud offers.

“Now, practice your breathing and come on back Darien. Now we know you _can_ do it, we want to teach you to do it at will. It's a little thing called biofeedback. It'll allow you to control the Quicksilver, or, at the very least, control your heart rate to jump start the Gland.” Kevin continues.

Darien ignores him, focusing on trying to banish the memory and steadying his breathing. It takes him less time then the day before, and then he's shaking Quicksilver from his hair, to Kevin's bright grin. He looks proud, Darien isn't sure he's ever seen Kevin look at him like that before.

Arnaud also looks mildly impressed, and Darien tucks that away for later consideration.

“You were saying something about biofeedback?” Darrien prompts.

Which is how he ends up hooked to an electrodermograph, electrocardiogram and pneumograph, occasionally all at once.

It's not _comfortable_ , but, surprisingly, it does help. Being able to actually _see_ when he's doing something right is making it easier to get repeat results. Admittedly, he only manages to go fully invisible by scaring himself, but he does get occasional trickles of Quicksilver, even if it's gone before he can really capitalise on it.

By the end of the day he's gone invisible another five times, each quicker than the last, and managed to at least work out how to sweat Quicksilver on command, even if he can't actually make it secrete without actively being sweating. Which is a really gross sentence now he thinks back on it.

He'd showered five minutes ago, but now he feels like he should again. Instead, he stays in bed, and sleeps.

He shakes off the nightmare when he wakes. He'd almost been expecting it, so it bothers him a little less than it normally would, even if he still has to have a cold shower to try and focus back on reality.

Life falls into a pretty quick routine after that. He's hooked up to the various monitors, and goes Quicksilver, Kevin, or Arnaud, or both, take notes, check how he's feeling and try to instruct him on controlling an invisibility gland. Neither offer especially helpful advice.

After Arnaud heads out to grab lunch one day, he turns to Kevin, he's only hooked up with the electrodermograph for the moment, which is partly why he feels safe to ask, “Why me, Kevin?”

Kevin looks up from his notes, “Sorry?”

“I'm not even allowed to know half the stuff about the project because it's ' _classified_ ’, and this isn't your first human test, so, surely there were people who actually have the clearance interested in playing lab rat.” Darien asks, keeping his voice light.

Kevin sets his notes on the table next to him, frowning, “It's- in the early tests there were some... _complications_ -” Darien's heart spikes, but Kevin continues before he can interrupt, “-they’re all handled now, but, it made most people I might've considered wary, and the people left, who _had_ high enough clearance were all military types. Killers. Not people I wanted running around with an experimental invisibility Gland.”

“I'm a thief, Kevin. Why would I be any better?” Darien points out.

Kevin tries to meet his eyes, but Darien drops his gaze to his brothers chin. Kevin continues, “This, is my _Life's work_ , Darien.” He pauses, breathes out, “I didn't _trust_ it with anyone else.”

“Oh.” Darien says, quietly. His gut twists. Guilt, or something similarly uncertain a lead ball in his stomach.

“You're better than you think you are, Darien,” Kevin says, “I wish you understood that.”

Darien doesn't know that there's anything he can say to that. So he stays quiet, nods. Tries to settle his stomach.

By the third day of testing he's able to summon a full body reaction with Quicksilver almost on command, and Kevin decides to break up the biofeedback testing by introducing yoga. He insists it's for muscle and breath control, but Darien suspects it might be some elaborate way to tease him.

Still, by the end of the week, he's gotten good enough to vanish individual limbs, and he's hoping to narrow it down further, if only to prove he can. It's _odd_ , his brother trusts him, is _proud_ of him. He's not sure what to do with that.

Even Arnaud has been excited about his progress. It's almost enough to offset Darien's certainty that the he's up to something, but not quite.

The only problem with reconnecting with his brother, is that now he has a new nightmare to deal with. The first time he'd woken with the dream-memory of his brothers blood on his hands he'd thrown up, he'd distracted himself soon enough by working out he could freeze things ( _if it's due to heat bending around the Quicksilver, leaving it below freezing, why can he willfully freeze things? Why isn't he constantly freezing the ground? He leaves cold spots, but why can he_ direct _it?_ _He's sure Kevin would know, but he's surrounded by geniuses, and getting lectured every time he says something slightly wrong isn't exactly enjoyable. Once the Gland's out of his head, it won't matter, anyway_.), but the nightmare had made its return the following night. A pretty firm assurance it was gonna be a regular from then on.

Working out he can Quicksilver _other_ things happens mostly on accident. He keeps some Quicksilver from going elastic and drops it on the floor, curious what'll happen, and then, it goes elastic on its own. A smudge of darkness on the ground. It takes about two minutes for the spot to flake, and he spends the entire time worrying about making a permanent spot of invisibility on the floor.

Course, then he has to experiment. Which is why Kevin comes back from lunch to find half the room's equipment invisible, and him in the middle of coating his shirt.

Kevin is pretty impressed, until he realises one of the things Darien has vanished was his notebook. Still, he brightens up when it comes back. Though Darien does the opposite when he realises he now has even _more_ tests. Seems experiments don't rank particularly above academia in regards to tests he dislikes.

-

It's not a nightmare. That in and of itself is odd. There's a hammering at the back of his brain, and it's not a nightmare that woke him. He feels _drained_ , several inches sideways of himself. Out of step and out of sync.

He's surprised when he gets out of bed, he didn't expect his body to listen, but it did, and he gets it to walk over to the mirror, can't quite get up into the comfortable spot on the balls of his feet. He feels clumsy. Off.

His face in the mirror is washed out. The small light leaves his complexion pale as moonlight and the eyes staring back at him are bloodshot. Veins prominent in the flesh around his eyes. His irises are dark enough that in the lowlight he can't make out his pupils, and maybe it's just the light but the shadows around his face look wrong. He feels alien.

It's mostly routine that has him rubbing water over his face. He doesn't expect it to do anything, but then, he's looking at his ordinary eyes again. All the red gone away even if he still doesn't feel right. He probably just needs sleep. He walks back to bed.

Fails to sleep.

-

The headache sits, a twisting sort of dull fury wrapping that rattles and rests against the edges of his skull. Sat and settled and unerringly painful. It _aches_. Grits. Sandpaper on his brain. He ignores it resolutely. It's just from lack of sleep, from waking up to the nightmare the night before last. He's used to it, but he also knows if he brings it up, Kevin will have him sat down and examined in a hundred different ways for possible side effects. He knows, because that's what happened when he complained about his muscles aching, which was really just from the exercise. Yoga and all that. Different way to stretch the muscles. And this is just a headache from sleep deprivation. So he'll carefully keep from complaining and try to keep a lid on his temper. No lashing out, even though every word out of Kevin's mouth grates like fingernails and every time the Gland fails to work he feels like _screaming_. He's about reached his boiling point on frustration, but he's not about to start giving Kevin _more_ reasons to make his life hell.

Oh sure, yes, just come join my secret surgery project, I can fix it all up afterwards and then you're free to go. Oh, is that so? First I'll just cover you in spiders, and then you have to learn biofeedback and then we still have _all these tests to do_ , but don't worry _bro_ , you'll be out of here soon.

He bites his tongue, swallows vile frustration, and tries to keep from swearing. He doesn't want to get told off for that _again_. The Quicksilver fails to appear. Not even a _hint_ of the unfamiliar chill winds its way down his spine.

“Alright, try the left,” Kevin demands ( _says, something points out, he's irritated, and trying to keep it out of his voice, but it wasn't a demand._ ).

Darrien grits his teeth, focuses and pulls at the liquid cold, it twists up his right arm and he throws it off immediately, sweeping up onto his feet and hissing a swear between his teeth. “I don't _get this_ ,” he almost flinches at the anger in his tone, drains it, continues, “I thought I had this down, you know?”

He hears the humour in Kevin's tone even before he speaks, “Okay, okay, _relax._ ” He crosses the room, siddles up to Darien, “We've probably been working you too hard-”

The hand falls on his shoulder and the headache _twists_. Some imperceptible sound pulls and picks at his ears and he's knocked the hand free immediately.

“What?” Kevin bites out, disappointment settled in his voice.

“Nothing.” Darrien tries, almost sincere, “Nothing I'm just getting a little sick of you touching m-”

There's a burning cold twitch of pain at the base of his skull, he twists his head in response, swallows a noise of agony.

“Darrien, what is it?” Blame. Like it's _his_ fault the Gland is screwy? Maybe this sort of stuff should have been checked over before he stuck it in his brother's head ( _he's overreacting. He knows he is, but, it_ hurts _and Kevin's presence alone is an aggravator. A drill bit carving through his skull and drumming hard against the walls of his thoughts. He doesn't feel_ right _. There's something_ wrong _._ ).

“I don't know I just-” he tries, but gets no further, as the ice pick burn curls into his head and drags it's drill bit claws along the innards. He can practically _feel_ his brain turning to so much mush. A twisted little grey matter soup. He ends up with his back leant against a table. A little unsure how, but the pain begins to settle. Relaxing into a steady blanket of something almost comforting.

Rage fills his gut. Liquid rage freezing over and expanding until all the space is made up of _only that_. He hates. He hates with the earnest sincerity of a man sick and tired of being pulled apart and put together _wrong, for promises that won't be kept._ There is something _wrong_. He can almost taste it. Poison in his skull and his throat. Frozen vile toxicity winding through his muscles and making something demanding and malicious in its place.

He doesn't feel like himself.

“Darrien?” Kevin says, “Darien?”

At the same time, Darrien repeats, “I'm ok. I think I've got a handle on it. I think I've got it.”

And then Kevin is almost right on top of him, hands touching and _burning_ , spreading that same sickly poison through the contact and _he doesn't want to be touched_.

“You sure?” Kevin asks, and his hands drop.

Everything feels off. Two steps to the left and bent like a tilted painting. His eyes ache, or burn, or hurt in some undefined way. They feel red, and unfamiliar, but it doesn't matter. What matters, is that Kevin is still here, and Kevin is still too, _too_ close.

“Oh yeah.” Darrien nods. The grin in his brain isn't on his face, but that's fine. He's fine. He feels _just fine_. Just wonderful. All filled up with something that _is not him_ , and it's all because Kevin couldn't leave well enough _alone_.

The pain hasn't stopped. Liquid and silver in those hind parts of his brain, but it has settled into something like a friend. An embrace. A comfort in the way a straightjacket is. Something off and awful and _oh so wonderfully vile_.

“Oh god,” Kevin starts, seeing something of the _wrongness_ , turning to Arnaud, “We need to get him to med-”

Something twists until it shatters and that is _enough_. His hands wind up in Kevin's lab coat and the _contact makes him want to rip Kevin's frost toxic, lying little face off and see if he can still play doctor_ then.

“I think-” Darien growls, the words pouring from the back of his throat, settling on his tongue like a sour candy, “-I've been _prodded_ enough, Kevin.” Arnaud's hands are trying to seperate them, but the force is next to nothing and even though his touch makes his skin feel like _acid_ , it's not as important as _Kevin_. “Maybe I _should return the favour._ ”

Arnaud's grip tightens and _he can't bare it_. He doesn't want to be touched. He _wants them to stop touching him_. _He'll tear their fingers off if he_ has _to_ ( _that's wrong. He knows that's wrong. Something's wrong. He doesn't feel like himself_.).

But, he doesn't _have_ to. So he drops Kevin into one of the wheel tables and shoves Arnaud off him and-

 _Oh_ the look on Arnaud's face is _heartwarming_. He'll carry that expression of pain, terror and petulant offence to his _grave_.

Quicksilver comes almost unbidden. A liquid sheet of cold that coats him to perfection and renders the whole world in that most _soothing_ shade of mostly monochrome. He vanishes.

He needs to be somewhere alone. That's- Why ( _because this is wrong. He isn't_ himself _. Something is wrong._ )?

He needs to get somewhere safe. Safe from _everyone else_ , with their knives and needles and touch like _fire_. Needs to get somewhere _safe, so he doesn't hurt anyone_. He wants to hurt them. He doesn't know why. It's frustration and rage and pain as thick as molasses with a grip like a _vice_. He can't think straight. He just needs to _get away_.

He knocks someone over. Feels the contact like talons digging up his flesh and bites down the urge to scream. Tastes blood and is almost refreshed by it.

He ends up in the showers. Realises only too late there's a woman there too and _how dare she be here_ . He needs to be alone. He needs to be alone. He needs to be alone _and she's ruining it_. He's _going to tear her limbs off. Crack her skull against the wall and show her how_ it _feels_. _She's going to_ suffer _. How dare she?_

He advances, feels the mist and humidity freeze against his icicle skin and growls out a noise subvocal.

She turns, squeals, and the noise _grates_ , he wants to wrap his hands around her throat and let the ice build until she can't _breathe through it_ , so she never makes a noise like that _again_.

He _wants_ ( _he is terrified. Confused. But mostly, he's angry. So angry. He doesn't know why. He doesn't want to hurt her._ ) _her dead._

“ _Get. Out._ ” He makes the demand through clenched teeth and the self restraint of a saint. Partly held back by the fact he'd _have to touch her, and feel all those knives under his skin again_. There's a simpler solution.

She squeaks out a panicked noise, inches to the wall, then charges past him.

He doesn't relax, even though she's gone, because now all he can hear is the shower and it beats against his brain in time with his headache and he wants _to ruin_ something. He wants-

Kevin and Arnaud and some guards are in the room now and all he has inside him is _frustration and the want to make them pay_. Kevin is uttering something that's supposed be soothing but the noise just spins into that pile of hatred clogging his throat. He's going to tear the _lot of them apart_. He's going to-

( _Something is wrong_ )

-make them _suffer_. Make them _burn_ the way he does and all that warped poison and frost in his veins leaves him aching in impossible ways, and he wants to share. Wants to show- _needs_ to show them how it feels.

The guard has him on the floor faster than his thoughts are moving and there is liquid fire tranquilizer burning through his brain, touching all his thoughts and turning them even further to mush. He _hates_ this. He needs to _fight_. To think. Something's _wrong_. Something's

Wrong.

There's

some

thin

g

w

r

o

-

 

 

-

His first thought is, Nightmare, but he knows immediately that he's not that lucky.

Kevin is by his side in an instant, see's the question on his tongue, “We call it Quicksilver Madness. One of the components of Quicksilver acts as a cerebral disinhibitor. It breaks down higher cortical functions. Lowers impulse control, heightens aggression. Stuff like that. We uh, saw this happen in early trials, but we hadn't seen it since then. I was certain I'd worked out how balance everything so that it wouldn't recur, but-” he sighs, runs a hand through his hair, he looks as exhausted and drained as Darien feels, “-you've had this version of The Gland longer than any other test subject. Maybe it just built up over time? Regardless, Arnaud was able to create a Counter-agent that broke down the toxin.”

Darien spots Arnaud in the corner of the room, and suddenly, he thinks he can just about _see_ what's wrong with him.

“Well,” Darien tries for casual, “Give him my thanks, then.”

Kevin nods, continues, “It's good he made something up so quick, long term damage to your brain like that might not have been repairable-” at the slight alarm on Darien's face, he says, faster, “-but, this was really no different then the effect of drugs or alcohol. Once isn't going to cause any damage. You're fine. We'll leave you to get your rest today, take our last readings and tests tomorrow, and then we'll uh-” Darien isn't quite awake or adjusted enough to nail exactly what's wrong with how Kevin's speaking here, but there is _something_ wrong, “-remove The Gland. No worries.”

Kevin pats his shoulder twice, and then he and Arnaud are gone.

With no one else in the room, he lets himself rest for a few moments, before getting to his feet, and calling his hold on the Quicksilver. It almost makes him flinch, anxiety immediately settling in his gut as he worries about another attack of madness. Even though Kevin had just said it was from a _build up_ , and he'd done a lot more then turn invisible for a few seconds before it affected him. It took, what, the better part of a month? More than a month if he includes the time he was out of it after the surgery. He's fine. He'll be fine.

And regardless of if he's fine. Someone needs to watch Arnaud. He's up to something. Darien can taste it.

He catches up, then follows Arnaud and Kevin invisibly, until Arnaud says something vague about needing to grab something and splits off. He heads for his room, grabs his on site radio, and then heads for the server room. Darien kind of wishes he had his phone on him, so he could record evidence, or something, but there's probably security cameras in the room anyway, and stopping Arnaud might be more prudent then getting evidence.

Arnaud plugs a flash drive into one of the servers, begins pacing impatiently as it begins downloading.

Darien thinks he's seen enough. He drops the invisibility, and drinks in the flinch and surprise on Arnaud's face.

“Hey Arnaud, what you doing?” Darien asks, sing-song.

“I'm surprised you would be going invisible again so soon after the attack, Mr Fawkes.” Arnaud smiles, a veneer of friendship pressed too thin and made insincere.

“Yeah, well, I'm surprised you made up a little cure for it so quickly. Must be a real genius, Arnaud.” Darien says.

“Ah, no. It was really nothing. Anyone could have done it. Really.” Arnaud insists.

“Oh, but it wasn't _anyone_ , Arnaud. It was you.” Darien pokes.

Arnaud removes his flash drive from the server, steps back, Darien intercepts, stepping in front of him.

“What you got there, buddy?” Darien asks.

“Ah, it's just some files, I was to grab for your brother. Nothing to concern yourself with-” Arnaud's fist hits him almost as soon as he's done talking.

It's more the surprise then the actual pain that knocks Darien back. His heart spiking and only rigid control keeping him from going half invisible right there.

“Oh come on. That was just-” Darien starts, before noticing the fire extinguisher in Arnaud's hand.

He smashes the window in with it, and Darien frowns, as the alarm system kicks in.

“What are you-?”

Arnaud meets his eyes, and then screams, dropping the fire extinguisher on his head. Darien's eyes widen, and then he backs up, kneels, tries to present as unassuming a figure as possible. Course it doesn't stop the first guard in the room from jabbing him with a tranquilizer immediately. It takes him a few moments to pass out, just enough time for Arnaud to 'start stirring’.

To see the hint of a gut curlingly smug grin flash across Arnaud's lips, for just a second, and he  _hates._

He comes to consciousness strapped to his bed. Kevin sighs, watching him

“What was that, Darien?” He asks, “Your eyes _look_ fine, so it can't have been QSM again already. So, why'd you attack Arnaud?”

Darien raises an eyebrow, “Would you believe I _didn't_?”

Kevin sighs, “What am I supposed to think, Darien?”

‘ _That maybe your little brother wouldn't attack people for no reason.'_  he thinks.

“That maybe you should check the security footage.” He says.

Kevin frowns, “We will, but, I don't know what you're implying there Darien.”

Darien narrows his eyes, “Sure.”

“Arnaud is the nicest guy on the project.” Kevin counters.

Darien raises an eyebrow, “Yeah, well the con wouldn't work if he was running around twirling a moustache and kidnapping woman to tie to train tracks, would it?”

Kevin laughs, disbelieving, “What _con_ , Darien?”

“The one where a little problem you didn't have last time suddenly reoccurs, and Arnaud comes out of nowhere with his little fix?” Darien argues, “What do you think he was doing in the server room?”

Kevin just sighs, pats Darien's knee, and leaves.

Darien stares after him, but there isn't anything he could say to convince him, he knows. He settles down into the pillow, eyes closed, and prepares to wait.

Eventually a guard comes by, checks his heartbeat ( _a stupid move. They literally taught him to control his heartbeat._ ), and Darien reaches his fingers into their pocket, lifting what sits comfortably in his palm as a scalpel. Only thing probably better for the job would've been a full on knife.

As soon as the guards gone, he slips the blade around to cut through the strap. It takes a bit of finagling, but he gets through the fabric, and then, arm free, he pulls lose his other arm and his legs, and slips into Quicksilver in just about the same moment as the alarms go off.

He's out in the halls, heading for the server room, when he runs almost full body into Kevin, slipping out of Quicksilver and grabbing him by the shoulders.

“Oh thank god. I was just going to get you-” Kevin starts.

Darien interrupts, shaking his head, “We’ve got to get out of here.”

Kevin goes to nod, but his eyes flick past Darien, to the doorway. Before Darien can even get around to reacting ( _He swears he's supposed to be faster then this_.), Kevin shoves him to the side and takes six bullets to the chest.

It's not the fury and loss of self of QSM, but it's close.

He fades from visibility, strides across the hall and buries the scalpel three times in the shooters neck. It feels too quick, and the blood freezes against the Quicksilver. Dark spots floating on absolute nothingness.

He heads back to Kevin. Tries to stop the bleeding, but there's too many wounds, and he doesn't _know_ first aid. Not properly. Not enough to stabilise his brother.

One of Kevin's hands finds the back of his neck, and he's pulled close. Kevin's voice is hoarse, dry, cracking with each word and laced with exhaustion, “Don't...let it...fall into the...wrong...hands. Darien-” a deep breath, “That Gland … is… going to...make you… some...thing...great.” he swallows, “Look after it...for me.”

And then he dies.


	2. (II) Interesting Times

Darien thinks he's taking the death of his brother well. He _did_ leave a message in the killers blood, on a corpse, but, that's fine. There are worse ways to deal with grief. Probably.

Still, he's sworn his vengeance, commited a murder ( _he'll try not to feel bad about it later, but it_ was _a murder, even if it was the murder of a hired gun. It was a person's life, and he knows it's going to kick him in the gut when it finally hits him._ ), and stolen a car, but none of the explosions have been his fault ( _yet_ ), and his current goal is to get The Gland out, anyway.

His first thought is to see if Casey ever became a doctor like she said, but he doesn't imagine his college sweetheart of one whole week is really an option for removing the super secret _invisibility Gland_ from his skull. Any of the doctors he knows won't ask questions he doesn't trust enough to pursue. That's the trouble with a morally ambiguous med student. You can't trust them to be _moral_.

He doesn't have much in the way of options, it seems.

If he wants things handled, he'll have to find Arnaud. He's the only person who might have the knowledge Darien needs. Maybe he can pick it out of the grey matter once he's done breaking Arnaud's skull.

He heads for his apartment. He'll what-? Clear the place out, see if any of his old friends know something about Arnaud, and track him down? All before the Quicksilver Madness rears its head again. He's not sure how long he has. Kevin didn't say anything about a timescale. He was going to take The Gland out in two days. Darien knows he shouldn't be pissed, but he wishes Kevin had felt inclined to share some information on the specifics of Quicksilver Madness, if not the rest of The Gland's entire structure, or, uh, the potential long term health issues.

He steps into his apartment, freezes-

Two men in suits are going through his stuff, they turn to look at him.

-and steps back towards the door, “Oh, don't mind me. I'll, uh, just leave you to it, shall I?”

Apparently, he shall _not_ , as one of the suited men crosses the room and grabs his wrist, roughly.

“Darien Fawkes.” It's not a question.

Regardless, eyebrow raised and eyes wide, Darien answers, “Yeah?”

“Our boss would very much like to meet you.” the man drags him to the door.

“Oh, great.” he doesn't protest overmuch as he's _'lead’_ to a car, shoved inside and driven off to meet _'The Boss’_ , whoever they are.

He's lead by his elbow into a nondescript building. Some plain set of offices he'd never think to look twice at usually. The kind of place that sprawls backwards instead of up. His guard deposits him in a long room, three doors, two he'd put as leading to the hall, one to another room, and a window running the entire expanse of one of the walls. He's shoved into a low to the ground seat in front of a desk that appears to be the most expensive thing in the building. His guards take up position by the doors.

Behind the desk is a rotund man, aged, but not weathered. His eyes are keenly intelligent, and watching Darien as carefully as Darien is watching him. He's clearly waiting for Darien's lead.

“I assume you're _‘the Boss'_. You got a name?” He asks, eyebrow raised and carefully nonchalant.

“For security reasons-” There's a shorter man, thin, bland and nondescript in the corner, Darien startles as he spots him, “He can't give you his name, but, you may refer to him as The Official.”

Darien's eyebrow ticks up a notch, “Oh, may I?”

The flunky doesn't seem to know how to respond to that, so he just sort of, nods.

“Darien Fawkes,” The Official says, staring him down, “You’re a man with many exciting skills these days.”

“Skills you're interested in, I'm guessing?” Darien replies, lazily.

The Official nods.

“Ok, well, I know what I can offer you, what can you offer me?” Darien asks, leaning slightly forwards in his chair.

“Protection from parties interested in pulling you apart, for one.” The Official says, trying to meet his eyes. Darien stares resolutely at his tie.

“That's a good one.” Darien nods, “But, I don't know anything about you, or this little shadow group. Why would I work with you?”

“Simply put, Mr Fawkes,” The flunky speaks up, dropping a file on the table Darien recognises as his own from the project, “Project QS20300 was commissioned and funded by this Agency. Legally, we own The Gland, and its associated assets. I.e. you.”

Darien feels his veins run cold. ‘ _We own you,_ ’ isn't a great thing to hear from anyone, but, especially not weird shadow organisations. He swallows vile realisation.

“ _Oh_.”

The Official grins, smug and self satisfied.

At that expression, rage starts to twist in Darien's gut. He has a half whisper of panic at the thought of Quicksilver Madness, but he hasn't gone invisible that much. He should be fine. This rage doesn't feel like the QSM did, anyway. It's the simmering, poisonous kind, not the reactive, frostbite, explosive _pull_ that had thundered through his thoughts. This is fine.

He grips the rage tight. Better angry than terrified. Better simmering then frozen.

He shifts in his chair, doesn't meet The Official's gaze, but settles his eyes just above him, and asks, “So what? You knew Kevin, then?”

He can't read The Official, but the flunky is not subtle at all, and he looks confused, thrown by the question, about to ask his own before The Official speaks up.

“Yes. He was a good man, your brother.” His voice is dull, sad, Darien thinks, and he'd put the safe bet on it being fake. Trying to earn sympathy, or make common ground.

The flunky catches on visibly, and carefully relaxes his posture back into that same perfectly restrained presentation. Darien resists the urge to frown at him.

“And what was my brother doing working with some random organisation? Who even are you guys?” He prods, letting annoyance edge into his voice.

The Official gestures a hand behind him at the plaque that reads, clear as day, ‘ _Fish and Wildlife Services_ ’.

Darien raises an eyebrow, “Ok, so that's a front, what's like, your _actual_ deal?”

“This Agency doesn't officially exist, _in any capacity_. So we function by essentially buddying up with whichever department has the funds to spare.” The Official explains, like that's not completely bonkers.

“Oof.” Darien mutters, “You're telling me, your Agency is so secret, _you don't even have funding_?”

The Official nods.

Darien opens his mouth. Shuts it. Reconsiders. Tapping at the base of his skull, he asks, “Then How'd you afford this hot mess?”

“We put away our birthday money and saved for a rainy day.” The Official says. It takes Darien a second to realise he's joking.

_What the crap?_

The Official gestures, moving the conversation on, and his flunky provides another piece of paper, stepping back into perfect stasis, arms behind his back, and face almost blank. He's not bad looking for a guy who _exudes_ an air of _accountancy_.

Darien's eyes linger a moment, and a thought half forms somewhere semi subconscious, ‘ _I’m gonna make him fall in love with me_.’

He almost startles at the thought, and then, as it settles into something _real_ , he has to fight to keep from grinning. He's gonna do a little of his _own_ manipulation. Pull the rug out from under The Official. See how he likes it.

Darien let's his eyes linger a moment longer, slowly winding up the flunky's body, and making a show of _quickly_ looking away, pretending to pretend he didn't just check the flunky out. There's the slightest heat to the flunkies cheeks, and Darien counts it as a win, turning his full attention back to The Official, who either missed, or ignored the exchange, as he taps the photo now in front of him.

“This, is Arnaud de Föhn. We believe you met him?”

Darien nods, examining the photo, it's undeniably Arnaud, dressed more casually then Darien had ever seen him at the facility ( _He has to find out what that place was called. There's no way everyone just called it 'The Facility’, and if they did, Darien's going to track down the asshole in charge of making government secrets and beat him with a baby names book._ ), and talking with people he doesn't recognise.

“He, as it turns out, is a considerable name in the Swiss underworld. The man you can go to to get _anything_. He funds, and is funded by, a considerable percentage of the Swiss criminal population. And somehow he was able to infiltrate the QS20300 project, in spite of stringent background checks and a frankly ridiculous amount of security.” ire slips into The Official's voice, and Darien's eyes flick up to him, taking in the opaque mask of indifference and not the hint of annoyance he was hoping to see.

“Oof.” Darien repeats, emphatically.

“I'm sure you can imagine that this particular series of events is rather _embarrassing_ for our Agency, and we'd like you to help us recover from the situation.” The Official goes on.

Darien nods, faux thoughtful expression on his face, “Why not go to one of your _actually funded_ buddy government groups?”

“As I said, this is rather embarrassing, and we'd prefer to keep things in house-” The Official explains, and something in the back of Darien's brain _clicks_ into place.

Darien's eyes widen, “Wait, do the rest of the government not know about this? Did you secretly fund an invisibility project?” He drops his head in his hand, “ _That_ certainly explains the paranoia. God, this is so dumb.”

The Official waits for him to finish, before adding, “We need you to retrieve the files on Quicksilver and Counter-agent from Arnaud, and then bring in the man himself.”

“That's great, but, why wouldn't I just head off on a merry trip with de Föhn, if he's currently the living expert on the foreign material stashed in my brain matter?” Darien prods. He knows they know his background. They shouldn't expect loyalty from him when they haven't got anything to offer beyond a dubious suggestion of ‘ _protection_ ’, and coming from the singularly most poorly funded Agency in America, that's not much. So, if they know that, then they've got to have _some argument_ , and he'd like to know what it is before he throws himself to either team.

“Well, sure. You could do that.” The Official admits readily, “But would that give you what you really _want_?”

Darien swallows. He knows where this is leading.

“Would that give you _justice_?”

He narrows his eyes, and coldly, says, “That's some pretty blatant manipulation there,” and, because he knows when he's beat, “ _sir_.”

The Official grins, all the affection of a knife to the heart, “Doesn't matter if it's clear as day, Fawkes. _So long as it works_.”

-

He's packed into a car with the flunky to go track down his _'partner’_ , one Robert Hobbes, who'll apparently have the connections necessary to track down Arnaud. The car is very much built for people more the flunkies size then Darien’s, and he has to hunch to avoid hitting his head every bump on the road.

Partly to fill the silence, and partly to get back at The Official, he decides to put his plan into action, “You got a name? Or is 'The Agency’ a title only club?”

The flunky looks over, “Uh, I'm not certain I'm supposed to be communicating with you-”

“Why not? I'm bored, you're hot, let's chat.” Darien leans against the window, pressing his back into the arm rest to better take in the flunkies reactions.

He's blushing, it's adorable, “Uh-” he squeaks, “-Your file lists you as intelligent and deceptive, and it is reasoned that you might try to uh, persuade Agents into assisting you in acting against The Agency.”

Darien nods, looking as attentive as he can manage.

The flunky goes on, “And, I'm to warn you, that I'm trained against manipulation, and also will not be working against The Agency, so _there_.”

“Ok, but are you _actually_ trained against that sort of stuff, or did they just tell you to say that?” Darien prods.

“I can neither confirm or deny.” The flunky tries, bless him.

“Well, that's fine, cause I can neither confirm, nor deny whether I'm manipulating you. Except, I mean, I'm really actually just bored. Do you have a radio?” Darien starts examining the cars dash.

“The radio was stolen and I haven't been able to replace it yet.” The flunky admits.

“Ah.” Darien leans back again, “Well, since I'm bored, and you're trained against manipulation, there should be no problem with us just casually chatting, should there?”

“I suppose not?” The flunky sounds confused, a little frown on his lips. Maybe intimidated? In any case, it's something Darien can use.

“Well, hey, how about this. We do it like actual regular human beings meeting for the first time,” he offers his hand to the flunky, “My name's Darien Fawkes, and at any moment I am three seconds away from trying to set stuff on fire.”

The flunkies eyes go a little wide, and then, “Oh, that was a joke? Like, to break the ice?”

Darien turns his offered hand flat, reaches over, pats the flunky on the shoulder, “There you go buddy, you got it.”

“Um, right. Well, I'm Eberts, and uh-” he pauses, worries at his lip, “-I can't think of a joke.”

“Hey, no worries. Jokes are really advanced level ice breakers, I think. You're doing great.” Darien offers, grinning lazily, “Is Eberts your last name, or-?”

“Yes. Or, uh, that is to say, it's my last name, yes.” Eberts nods.

“Well, Mr Eberts, pleasure to meet you.” Darien offers his hand again, this time, Eberts takes it, pumps it once, firm and practiced, before putting his hand back on the steering wheel. Perfect ten and two. He really just _exudes_ neatness, Darien notices.

“Uh, just, Eberts, if you would. No one calls me Mr.” Eberts requests.

Darien nods, “Sure thing, but you have to call me Darien, none of this 'Mr Fawkes’ stuff. Mr Fawkes was my father,” he shrugs one shoulder, “probably.”

“I can do that.” Eberts pauses, adds, “Darien.”

Darien smiles, honest and open. This might be good, actually.

-

He's been stood for something like half an hour now in a sweaty little market, crammed with people and humidity, waiting for his 'partner’ to show. He's probably dehydrated if the pulsing headache behind his eyes is any indication, and he'd love to know who he's supposed to be waiting for, but apparently they don't want to risk Hobbes cover by having him carry around a picture. He thinks that's dumb, he wouldn't have had to carry around a picture, could have put it on his phone, or, if that's still too risky, just let him look at a reference, _once_. He's got a very good memory, especially for faces, but The Official had said no and packed him off in the car with Eberts.

He checks his phone for the fifth time in as many minutes and frowns at the time on it. He hopes they at least actually gave Hobbes some indication of what he looks like, but considering the general air of incompetence he's getting, he's not sure he can even put that much faith in The Agency.

He sighs. He needs a drink, so he wanders over to a smoothie stall, brushing past some well built moron in a suit with his wallet sat in his jacket pocket. He pulls the wallet from the guys pocket, all the ease and practice of a motion he’s made a hundred times before, grabbing a few of the dollars from it, he tucks them away, then jogs back to the suited man, holding out his wallet.

“Hey, I think you dropped this.” He does his best impression of an innocent man who's a little out of breath but ultimately good of heart, and makes a show of breathing heavily.

The man looks alarmed, “I- thanks.” He shoves his wallet back in his pocket without even checking it. Score.

“No worries, just keep an eye on your stuff man.” Darien says, good naturedly, before turning on his heel and doing his best to blend back into the crowd. He's not very good at it, so he waits till suit guy leaves to return to the smoothie stall and order whatever sounds coldest.

Someone siddles up by him, sits down and looks him over, it's not as subtle as the guy seems to think it is. Darien takes a sip of his smoothie and raises an eyebrow at the guy, taking him in.

He's short, probably in his forties…? Probably. Bald spot and dark hair, clean shaven and with paranoid, dark eyes.

“Well aren't you a tall cup of glass.” Darien says. Then realises exactly what he said, and decides that oh, actually, he's better off dead.

To his credit, the stranger looks confused for only a moment before leaning over and with a lowered voice asking, “Is that a code phrase? Cause I wasn't told we were gonna have code phrases.”

Oh, come on.

Darien breathes out of his nose and ignores the pounding of his headache. Course he had to immediately embarrass himself in front of government spy. That's just how his life's going he supposes. Wonderful.

“No. Not a code phrase.” Darien rubs at his temples, “Sorry, I'm Darien,” he offers a hand, “You are?”

The stranger's brow ticks up a notch, and he smacks Darien's hand down, “No, no, don't do that. Don't you have any training?” He pauses, then quickly rattles off- “We're friends, we've just happened to run into each other, and decided to hang out. We're going to head back to where I'm staying to catch up. You following?”

Darien stares at his hand, “Can I bring my drink?”

The stranger, Hobbes, he feels it's safe to assume, looks affronted, “Can you bring your drink…?”

Darien shrugs, “I'm thirsty.”

Hobbes stands, grabs his elbow and pulls him along, “We're getting out of here, right now. Come on.”

Darien stumbles after him, valiantly avoiding spilling his smoothie, and politely keeps from protesting when he's shoved into another clown car and has to hunch over again. He slips petulantly from his smoothie.

“Ok,” Hobbes starts as they pull out of the park, “Now, I've been saddled with you cause supposedly you have some unique little _'skill’_ that will help with my case, but, anyone looking at you could tell you're not an agent.”

“Isn't…that a good thing?” Darien points out.

“Yes, well-” Hobbes stares at him, “ _I mean_ , it's like you have no idea what you're doing.”

“That's cause I don't.” Darien huffs.

Hobbes eyes narrow, suspiciously, “Who trained you?”

“Trained me? It was really more of a crash course in uh, not dying.” Darien shrugs.

“Now look here,” Hobbes declares, irritation slipping into his voice, “I'm a highly decorated Agent, and they can't just stick me with random schmucks off the street. This is-” his eyes narrow further, “This is to avoid giving me a raise isn't it?”

“Awful lot of effort to go through.” Darien jokes.

“What? You know something I don't? Are they trying to replace me?” Hobbes glares at him, looking away from the road.

“Ok, uh, please keep your eyes on the road while we're traveling in a high speed, metal death machine-” Darien begins, and once Hobbes eyes flick back forwards, he goes on, “-and, look, I was told to come to you to track down Arnaud. I'm not any happier being here then you are working with me, so let's just-”

“Who's Arnaud? That a code name or-” Hobbes interrupts.

Darien blinks once, then slams his hands down on the dash, hissing out a breath between his teeth, “ _Are you kidding me_?”

The headache pulses with the movement, has him gritting his teeth through the pain of it.

Hobbes pulls over and in one swift movement, pulls his gun, pointing it at Darien.

“Now,” he says, “I don't know what you're trying to pull, but let me tell you, you won't get one over on Bobby Hobbes.”

With the threat of the gun now present, Darien forces himself to relax, breathing out carefully and settling his heart rate. It does nothing for his headache, but he feels a little less like he's going to scream as he looks down at Hobbes, “Your Official told me you'd have a way to track down Arnaud de Föhn. I'm here for him, nothing else.”

“The Phone?”

“De Föhn.”

“That's what I said. Isn't that what I said?”

Darien swallows his ire. Shoves his growing aggravation back down, and settles what he hopes is a reasonable expression on his face, “So, you don't know him? He's a big name in the Swiss underworld, and I've been-” he struggles to think of an accurate word, “- _approached_ to track him down, bring him in and get some information he has that I need.”

“That _you_ need?” Hobbes raises a brow, refusing to lower the gun.

“And your Agency wants.” Darien adds.

“Well, I'll tell you what, I'm not working with some random off the street without any compensation.” Hobbes says, “You're what? Part of some rich family trying to run off and play secret Agent or something?” Darien goes to respond, but Hobbes cuts him off, “ _I don't care_ , you just call whoever you've got to call to talk about getting me a raise. Or at least a bonus for this mess.”

Darien grits his teeth against another flare of pain, rubs at his pulsing temple, even though the headache can hardly be said to be centred on his forehead anymore. It's omnipresent, all the way down his neck, like a bruise.

“ _There isn't anyone I can call_.” He hisses, “Look, did they not tell you anything about what was going on here before we met up?”

The barrel drops slightly, and Hobbes tries to meet his gaze, “Bobby Hobbes doesn't ask questions friend. I do the job in front of me, for my country.”

“Yeah?” Darien huffs out a laugh, “Well maybe you should have asked questions this time.”

He grabs the gun, Quicksilvers his palm and the underside of his fingers and freezes it in one fluid motion, before flinging it into the back seat.

Hobbes eyes are wide, Darien shakes the Quicksilver from his hand and stares him down, “Now, I need to find de Föhn. Can you help me to do that?”

Hobbes expression turns thunderous, “You can't just grab someone's gun! What if the safety had been off? I could have shot you!”

“God, I wish you would.” Darien shoves his still cold hand against his forehead, tries to relieve the pain some that way. When the cold starts to fade, he vanishes the entire forearm and rests his head in his invisible palm.

Hobbes stares, “Is that supposed to impress me?”

Darien looks over at him through invisible fingers, “No, it's _supposed_ to make my head stop hurting. Now, how do I find de Föhn?”

Hobbes swallows, turns to look forwards again and pulls the car back onto the road, “I'll send some feelers out with my contacts, see what they can scrounge up. You'll find your man.”

“Thanks.” Darien mutters, over the pain.

He drops the Quicksilver a few seconds later, even though he's loathe to lose the pain numbing cold of it, he does have some nebulous time limit to consider.

Hobbes watches him out of the corner of his eye, clearly trying to look like he's not looking while also, obviously, looking.

“What's up?” Darien asks, hoping conversation will take his mind off the pain.

“Explain-” Hobbes gestures at Darien's arm, “-all of that.”

“Thought you didn't ask questions?” Darien can't help but snark.

“Most missions don't have people disappearing limbs like it's no big deal. So explain.” Hobbes demands.

Darien rolls his eyes, leans back in his seat, “Right, well. Made a deal with the wrong people, got a gland in my head, now I can turn invisible. That's the cliff notes.”

“You made a deal with this Phone guy?” Hobbes prompts.

Darien shakes his head, “No.” Pauses, then adds, “I mean, I guess technically I made a deal with your Agency, then Arnaud took off with information from the project and killed everyone else involved. I need the information he has to get The Gland out, your Agency needs his information to take control of the project again.”

Hobbes frowns, thoughtfully.

“You ask a lot of questions for someone who ‘ _Doesn’t ask questions_ ’.” Darien points out.

“I'm basically a detective, it's my job to ask questions.” Hobbes says.

“ _What?_ ” Darien's eyebrows are in his hairline, “You just said-”

“There's a difference, my friend, between questioning the mission, and asking questions on the case. Anything I need to know, I'm told, or I'll find out when I ask around.” Hobbes explains.

“That's...dumb.” Darien manages, “Shouldn't you be getting as much information as possible _before_ you run off to track down missing bears, or whatever a detective for the department of fisheries and wildlife does?”

“I have faith in my superiors, my friend. They'll tell me what I need to know, and what I don't need to know, I don't need to know. You get me?” Hobbes says, shrugging.

“ _No_.” Darien says, aghast. God help him, he's been stuck with the dumbest government agent in the world.

“Well, let me ask you this friend, how many questions were you asking before you made your deal?” Hobbes shoots.

“So many.” Darien argues.

“How many?” Hobbes raises an eyebrow.

“Like, three-” Darien admits, but at Hobbes self satisfied expression, he adds, “But they were good questions.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Darien pauses, dips his head, “And also I wasn't allowed to actually know anything about the project before hand-”

“The ol’ need to know.” Hobbes says.

“-but they were extenuating circumstances. Normally I'd have asked a lot more questions, and also, probably disagreed. So. Yeah.” Darien finishes, lamely.

Hobbes smiles knowingly.

They pull into a crappy looking motel and Hobbes takes him to his room, before pulling out his phone and calling someone. Darien leaves him to it, heading to the bathroom to wash his face, hoping the water will help his headache some. He stares into his reflection, and, remembering the last time he had a headache and stared intently at a mirror, he checks his eyes. They hurt, feel tight and strained, but there's no redness, and that's a relief at least. He dunks his head again, dries what little hair got wet and wanders back to the main room. Hobbes is still talking with someone, probably one of his _'contacts’_ based on the side Darien can hear, so he steals the couch and splays himself over it, stretching his back like a cat. His feet hang over the edge, and he isn't comfortable, but it'll do.

He closes his eyes and tries to ignore the pain.

Half an hour later and Hobbes hangs up, “Alright, I've got a possible lead on your Phone guy. Let's go.”

“De Föhn,” Darien mutters, before rolling onto his feet.

He makes it a step before a brain shattering pain scrambles into the base of his neck. His muscles falter and he hits the ground, one hand keeping him from bashing his head open and the other tight over the back of his neck. He bites out a noise of pain, waits for it to pass, and then pants around the exertion of it.

“What was that?” Hobbes demands, somewhere between panicked and wary.

Darien catches his breath, stares up at Hobbes with eyes he hopes aren't red, manages, “One of the reasons I want The Gland out, and, let's just say, some _incentive_ to find de Föhn as quickly as possible.”

Hobbes swallows his questions, heaves Darien back to his feet and makes for the door, “Then let's get going, my friend.”

-

It turns out, Arnaud has basically invited him. Sure he had to dig the invitation out of a box full of spiders, but what's a little arachnophobia between _friends_? He sticks the address into his phone while Hobbes talks to the shop owner, then Quicksilvers himself and the invitation. With the way his head is pounding, and the attack earlier, he doesn't think he should _really_ be around anyone he doesn't want to kill. He has two and a half minutes before the Quicksilver drops from the invitation so he shoves the paper into Hobbes’ hands, and vanishes onto the street, ignoring Hobbes protests.

Even if he gets the formula, he's no idea if he'll be aware enough of himself to use it. So he wants Hobbes, and hopefully someone in The Agency who knows medical crap, to arrive eventually. Just, not right away. _Not while he's taking care of things._

He grabs a moped off the street, hotwires it and follows the directions on his phone, dropping the Quicksilver as soon as he gets onto the road.

He's pretty sure he doesn't actually have a license, anymore. He took the test, and passed, but, the wallet with his licence in it was confiscated by the police years ago, and he didn't take it back after he broke out of the overnight hold that time. So… this might be illegal. Maybe? Seeing as he's going to steal back information from a top secret government project, stole the vehicle he's using, and is also planning a murder, it's really not high on his list of considerations as to whether or not he's legally allowed to be driving. It _is_ a consideration, though. Mostly because thinking about that keeps his thoughts off the mind numbing pain that's flaring up with every bump in the road.

He Quicksilvers as he gets close, stopping the moped and sneaking up to the house's fencing. He's glad of the invisibility when another claw of poison is jammed under his skull and he hits the earth, body shaking as the attack rolls through him.

He breathes in the dirt a moment, the Quicksilver keeping any of it from actually bothering his nose and throat. Closes his eyes. Lays still. Then, slowly, carefully, finds his feet. He's not quite steady enough to get up on the balls of his feet as is comfortable, but that's fine. He can work around that. He has an important goal. He can ignore the minor discomfort of stepping on his heels. He can ignore a lot of things, he's sure, if he's going to get justice for Kevin. _And he is._

Now, Confucius is listed as probably having said _‘Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves_.’, and Darien isn't sure he's ever really understood the saying. Oh sure, the argument is that revenge is ultimately an endeavour that will destroy the person partaking in it, as well as the person it's being taken upon, but, well, it's really a moral argument. Going for revenge won't literally destroy him, but it's basically saying that, ‘ _hey, if someone hurts you, and you try to hurt them back, that's wrong_.’. He might be oversimplifying, but he's not exactly in what one would call a _complicated mood_. Anyway, the point is, as much as he thinks the phrase is generally crap, in this situation, it's probably a fair estimate as to how things are going to turn out.

He _is_ about to break into the home of a guy prepared for him, while edging into a brain mulching madness that occasionally causes such significant pain he _literally_ can't stand, after all. He's not likely to get out of this alive or sane, but honestly, at this point? That's _fine_. He'll happily throw himself into his own open grave and choke on the dirt if he gets to drag Arnaud down with him.

Someone has to pay.

He circles the building invisibilly as quick as he feels he can get away with and still have a fairly accurate idea of the security and shape of the place. There's weight sensors on most of the doors and motion detectors on most of the windows, set to go off if the windows are moved. He was never one to write a place off as completely impenetrable, but there were some where the challenge just wasn't worth the reward and he'd had to excise considerable restraint to not just _try it anyway_. This is certainly one of those types of marks. Even with invisibility, it's clear he's not going to have an easy time of it. Course, he's also not _exactly_ in the best state of mind for restraint.

The motion sensors are clearly infrared, he can see the beams with his Quicksilvered eyes. He's got no doubts that Arnaud would have set them up to detect him when invisible, so that's no use here. Unless of course, he just turns _all_ of the motion sensors invisible. Or freezes them. If they're all malfunctioning/sending up signals, then they're basically useless. The Quicksilver will last for two and a half minutes, so he turns visible, prepares a timer on his phone, then turns invisible again, except for his arm and phone.

It's easy to Quicksilver just his palm, because the Quicksilver piggybacks off the sweat glands, and they concentrate in the palms, it's _less_ easy to specifically avoid Quicksilvering anything less than half a limb. It hadn't seemed important to work on more then basic precision when he'd thought it'd be temporary.

Course now it's looking like it'll be the death of him. He's honestly, pretty ok with that, as long as it puts a stop to his headache, and as long as he takes Arnaud with him. If he can leave The Gland unusable, or at least _unattainable_ by The Agency then that'll be his every desire taken care of. He's sure Kevin would want to have The Gland functional after his death, it was his life's work, and all, but Darien doesn't think anyone should have access to it.

He really can't see how it would help anyone.

He Quicksilvers the first sensor, starts the alarm, and sets his phone to vibrate, before Quicksilvering the rest of his arm and his phone. He bites down the pulse of anxiety at using so much Quicksilver, and the subsequent flare of his headache. _It's fine,_ he tells himself, continuing on. He manages most of the windows sensors on the side of the house he's on before his phone buzzes in his hand. He runs back to the screen doors, slips inside as a group of thugs move out to investigate and slips into a bedroom, dropping the Quicksilver.

He needs a moment. Just a moment.

 _Sure_ , he wants Arnaud dead. Oh he _absolutely_ wants Arnaud dead, but he needs to be smart about this. Arnaud's smart, _he needs to be smarter_ , and he can't do that if he's slowly slipping into silver insanity. Can't do that if he can't think straight. If he can't hear his own thoughts over the pulse of rage that he can feel quivering just beneath his thoughts.

If he dies here, he dies here, but he _will not_ go down without taking Arnaud out first. So, that's his goal here. _That_ is his goal. Nothing else matters.

Everything else is secondary.

He takes a deep breath, stands back up and slips once more into invisibility.

He makes his way to the basement, ears open for the sound of anyone, and entirely too conscious of how loud his feet are with every too clumsy step. He's two feet sideways of himself. Slipping into disconnect.

He's halfway down the hall when the pain snakes its way up the base of his neck and clamps down. His thoughts scatter and he crumples. Comes too panting, and with Arnaud's voice in his brain ( _Over the intercom, something points out_.). He can't quite make out what's actually being said. Can only hear the buzz and rattle of a voice filtered through electronics, and the snide tone that is undeniably Arnaud.

A hiss of static by his ears and he is standing again, doubling down on the coating of Quicksilver ( _he can obviously see you, idiot. That won't help._ ) and moving on. Arnaud's awful little voice has only reminded him how very much he wants to kill the piece of crap. A static _screeches_ in his ears, pleasant and terrible both.

He has a job to do.

He rounds the corner immediately into a mess of guards, one wearing heavy goggles, the others armed with fire extinguishers. He growls his irritation and punches Goggles in the face, feels the skin between his knuckles tear on the impact ( _feels his skin crawl with the contact._ ) and slams his foot down on Goggles leg, before slipping past the others in a panicked haze of rapidly eroding patience and anger. It's a fair guess to say he's thinking even less straight than usual, which is probably why it takes him something like three seconds to realise he's in an armoury.

Well. _He can use this._

He grabs what looks useful ( _So many goddamned grenades._ ), drops the Quicksilver, and storms back into the larger room, shotgun barrel nuzzled under his throat.

He bares his teeth in a grin that's too wide, feels pain prickle at his eyes and says, “Now nobody do anything I'm going to regret.”

The general looks of confusion are putting a bit of a damper on his confidence regarding the viability of this mistake. He raises his eyebrow, sets a dare in the tilt of his grin.

“Your boss wants what's in my skull. Please tell me he told you that, or this is just, _really_ kind of embarrassing, actually.” he rolls one shoulder in a half shrug.

“Ah- ah ah ah- Mr Fawkes, please stop pointing a gun at your head.” Arnaud steps around his men, one hand held up in a pacifying gesture, the other tucked into his jacket, “I'd hate for you to ruin the floors.”

“Just the floors?” Darien prods.

Arnaud sighs, “Mr Fawkes, we really don't have to be adversaries. Think on it, we could be something brilliant together. You're not as stupid as your brother made out, surely you must be curious as to the _why_ of all this.”

“Currently,” Darien hisses, “I'm not really in the _state of mind_ to be curious about much of anything. Whose fault is that, I wonder?”

“Regardless, allow me to explain,” Arnaud continues, heedless of Darien's interjection, “you see, your brother was a brilliant man, Darien, but he lacked _foresight_. What good is an invisibility Gland you can't control? He never thought of all the ways he could profit, not even when they were staring him in the face. When the toxicity of The Gland was discovered, he attempted to bioengineer it so The Gland could naturally degrade the toxicity over time, when it was obvious that instead, if he kept the cure for the growing toxicity as say, a little shot anyone with a Gland had to come retrieve, well, then he guaranteed a permanent return of revenue and a way to monopolize the control of invisibility.”

It takes Darien a moment to sort through that information, to order it in his head around the permanent ache in his skull, and then he laughs, humourless, “That's- That's good stuff. Evil genius, really.”

“I'm glad you approve, because, as I said, I'd be willing to bring you aboard-” Arnaud starts, slipping closer to Darien.

The back of his brain hisses at the proximity and he swallows the urge to flinch, “You killed my brother.” He spits.

“So what, I'll kill mine.” Arnaud shrugs, blaise enough that Darien believes him, “Besides, we both know why you're really here.”

Darien watches as Arnaud pulls his hand from his jacket, revealing a needle, the liquid inside a clear blue. He knows what that is. He _knows_.

“You need the Counter-agent. Join me, and you'll never have to worry about it again. Hell, if you're very good, I might even be able to remove the need, just for you.” Arnaud approaches, even as Darien steps back.

He wants that. He _needs_ that. He can't-

He can't just accept Arnaud's offer. He won't be that sort of criminal. He- ( _Why not? What's so much worse about his offer then everything you used to do on your own? Can you really claim a moral standing here?_ )-won't be that. He won't ruin his brothers memory.

( _What did Kevin ever do for you? It's not like he's around anymore, to complain, and nag, and remind you how irresponsible everything you do is. How_ wrong _everything you do is._ )

He needs space. He needs some time to think. He can't _think_ with Arnaud basically on top of him and _all these people_. He needs to be somewhere where there aren't so many people with their touch and gaze like scalpels under his skin. His flesh is crawling. A thousand spiders between the epidermis and the muscle, pushing and _prodding_ with a million invisible legs.

He needs to get out.

He _needs_ that Counter-agent.

He rests the gun against his throat, curls a little in on himself. He thinks he has a solution for all his problems, actually. His eyes rest on Arnaud's for just a moment, long enough to see the pupils shrink in sudden panic and realisation as Darien steps backwards, shoves against the wall and pulls the trigger.

The Quicksilver over his head is as much a reaction to the noise as it is his actual plan, he lets his body go limp, hits the floor and ignores the ringing in his ear from firing a shotgun next to it.

Maybe not his best plan.

Still Arnaud is saying _something_ , and coming over to inspect his _'corpse’_. As Arnaud kneels down Darien _moves_. Grabbing Arnaud's head and slamming his foot into it, grabbing the vial of Counter-agent as he reflexively drops it, and then Darien lets the relaxing chill of Quicksilver settle over the rest of him. His hand moving to the frankly ridiculous amount of grenades he stole from the armoury, and he pulls the pin on two, dropping them and making a run for it.

He drops a few more, runs into a side room, drops like five when he sees it's a security station. He backs out, traces his way back to the stairs. Probably better to get out the way he came in, then wander around aimlessly, when he's blowing stuff up. Was that a good idea? He's not sure that was a good idea, actually. Exploding things while he's in the building.

Yeah. That was dumb.

But it won't be dumb if it kills Arnaud, will i-

He hears an explosion, grits his teeth as it aggravates his headache and rings further in his ears. He keeps moving, dropping the last grenade down the stairs and charging out of the basement, and outside. He climbs carefully over the fencing and sets his back against a tree, the hand not wrapped desperately around the needle rubbing at his eyes. He feels the slimy grasp of Quicksilver pain about to slam a sledgehammer down on the top of his spine. He drops the Counter-agent so he won't crush it when the pain hits and he _spasms_. Curling in on himself until it stops and he can hardly think. He can _hardly think,_ but he needs this to stop, so, he forces his heart to quiet and lets the _crackle-shift_ of the Quicksilver dissolving take up his senses so he can see himself as he rolls up his sleeve and picks the needle back up. He pulls the cap off with his teeth, buries the needle in the crook of his elbow.

He's not sure what the actual medical procedure is here, but it _doesn't matter_ , he needs everything to stop hurting, and to _stop crawling, and to stop whispering,_ ringing _in his ears_. He shoves down the plunger, feels almost immediately a burning pain twist and dull from the injection. He keeps his arm limp, removes the needle and tucks it in his jacket ( _he might need it. Doesn't want to let it go, not after what he went through to get it.)_.

He slumps back against the tree again, eyes closed as he waits for everything to stop. He needs his brain to just _stop_. He knows- _he knows_ \- injections of any sort aren't instantaneous, that's why they keep you for a while after vaccines, it takes a bit for it to actually _settle_ in. Still. _Still_ he needs this to work, already. He needs this to start.

He's exhausted. He hadn't realised how tired he was until just now. Using The Gland probably just tired him out quicker. Now he can barely keep his eyes open.

( _Are you sure you're exhausted? Are you sure that was the Counter-agent? It could've been_ anything _. Why would he just have that on him? Why would he want you to work with him? This was just a way to get rid of you so he could pull The Gland out of your decomposing skull._ )

The panic can't quite reach his brain, his thoughts are too sluggish for him to really be able to _worry_ about it. Either it was the Counter-agent, and this is how it works, or it wasn't, and he's dead, in which case, it's not his problem. Hobbes should show up eventually, Arnaud's got to be dealing with the considerable amount of chaos he caused, so. Yeah. It'll be fine. Probably.

He closes his eyes for a moment.

He's not sure how long he lies against the tree, but the low thunder of a car engine perks his ears by the time the worst of the sluggishness starts leaving his system. Hearing that makes it pretty clear his headaches cleared up. He's thinking, not _clearly_ , but closer to it then he was, and it'll probably take a bit for the last of the Counter-agent to leave his system, or clear the toxicity, or whatever is going on. He watches the dust cloud of the car approach. Watches it screech to a stop.

Hobbes steps out of it, jogs over, looking _something_. He definitely has an expression, but working out what it is would take effort, and Darien's not up for much of anything at the moment.

“Hey,” he mutters, “What took you so long?”

“Are you ok? Are you hurt?” Hobbes crouches close, looking him over.

Darien shrugs, “m'fine. You bring anyone else with you?”

“I called in some back-up-” Hobbes starts. Darien nods, puts a hand on Hobbes shoulder and stands.

“Cool. Uh, I'm gonna go pass out in the back of your car now. You take it from here.” Darien mutters, he makes a few steps, doesn't trip over and counts it as a win. Ignoring Hobbes protests as he makes his way over to the car and does exactly as he said.

-

Hobbes ends up taking most of the credit for the mess left of Arnaud's place, Darien doesn't mind too terribly. He overacts his sluggishness, passes the needle on to Eberts with a wink and makes his vanishing act in the midst of The Agency's examination of the remains of Arnaud's house. He knows The Agency isn't done with him, knows he'll need a source of Counter-agent, but, he wants a day, at least, of no strings attached.

He heads straight home, sleeps dreamless for once, and wakes up at noon to an envelope slipped under his door. It's only contents are an address, a nearby cemetery. It's a short walk, thankfully, because he's not actually sure where his car is.

It's a nice little grave. Neat. No unnecessary flares, and not particularly attention grabbing. Exactly what he thinks Kevin would've wanted. He's not sure what you're meant to do at graves. He knows Kevin used to leave flowers for their mum pretty regularly, but he never _got_ it. Like, he understands popping by maybe half yearly to make sure no one's damaged it, but dropping flowers by with any regularity, it just seems _wasteful_. The dead can't appreciate them, and they're just going to sit there and wilt anyway.

Still, the blue hyacinths look nice enough against the dark of the headstone.

He's not sure if he should say something. Not sure what he _would_ say. Sorry? It doesn't feel right. So he just sits there.

He'll have to tell their Aunt, he supposes, and, well, he's not sure if Kevin _had_ friends outside the project. He'll have to seek out Kevin's college professors, see who he stayed in contact with. Track down his social circles. They deserve to know, especially seeing as they were probably closer with Kevin then he was, in the end.

He makes a note in his phone. It looks weird, squeezed between the notes on his last job and the mundane banalities of everyday life.

Buy more milk. Pay the bills. Tell Kevin's friends he's dead. Wash clothes.

Actually, he scrolls back up to look at the heist notes, frowns.

_House owner to return 11th. Job on 10th._

That's- that can't be right. He checks the date. His frown deepens.

He knows how long the trial took, and he knows how long he was in the project for, and that can't be right. He pulls up the calculator, taps in the days for each. Chews his lip at the number that comes back. Does it again, just to be sure. Counts the days on the calendar. Then triple checks. Stares as his finger rests on the eleventh.

 _You have got to be kidding_.

He did the job a day late. _He was a day late_.

He drops backwards onto the grass, turns off his phone. He feels like laughing. He doesn't.

“Your brother was a good man,” The Official announces his presence, putting a stop to the spiral of Darien's thoughts, as he props himself up on his elbow.

“He was a smart man.” Darien allows. It's not nice to speak ill of the dead, he knows, but given time to think he can't figure out what Kevin wanted to use The Gland for. He can't think of anything good for it. He can only guess it was intended to go to The Agency, to the government as a whole, and that's- _that's not great_. That's how you get invisible assassins, invisible spies. The potential _harm_ , the potential invasions of privacy are terrifying. He's not a genius, so maybe Kevin knew something he didn't, but he can't imagine invisibility doing the world any favours.

It's not like it was a mobility aid that got co-opted into acting as a military exoskeleton for funding or something. There isn't a nice beginning to the story of invisibility. There isn't a good excuse for it to start. He just _can't_ follow the reasoning.

Or, actually, he thinks he can follow it, he thinks he sees _exactly_ how Kevin ended up making an invisibility Gland. Kevin stumbled into something interesting, and followed it to its end because he was curious. He wasn't thinking about what it would be used for. He just wanted to make it work.

He has to hope that's the train of thought. At least ignorance of the possibilities is better than willfully creating something that would only be used to hurt people.

“That too.” The Official says, “What about you, Darien?”

“What about me?” Darien plays along, closing his eyes.

“Are you a smart man?” There's layers to the question.

“I'm here, aren't I?” Darien points out, “I'm here to hear you out. So start talking.”

“We were able to get enough information from Arnaud's computers and the needle you provided to reverse engineer Counter-agent. We don't have anyone left from the original project who could supervise The Gland, but we have hired an individual with enough clearance and the intelligence to make sense of it. If you agree to join us, they'll be working on removing The Gland and maintaining your health in the meantime.” The Official explains.

Darien stares at him, “And you're not just going to crack my skull open and take it, huh?”

“You brother spoke highly of you, Darien,-” doubtful, “-and you're already trained to use and control The Gland, if you won't believe I don't just going around having people killed because it's easy, then take some comfort in the fact I’m frugal.”

“So, what, I work for you till your scientist works out how to get The Gland out safely, and then I'm free to go?” Darien asks, eyes narrowed.

“Once The Gland is gone, there's no reason you'd have to stay with us.” The Official evades.

“What's stopping me from just turning invisible and wandering off?” Darien sits up, dare in his eyes.

“You want to stay sane, we're your only source of Counter-agent.” The Official points out.

“And if I decide I don't care? That maybe I don't like attempted blackmail and-” he slips his hand into his jacket, “-think I can solve this problem right now by exercising my fifth amendment rights.”

There's the sudden click of guns being cocked as two guards slip out of their hiding spots. It's possible there's only the two. Darien figures, more might be too much money for The Official to spend, but he also can't guarantee it. He raises an eyebrow at The Official, slips out of his jacket and reveals the lack of gun.

“What was that about not having people killed?” Darien prods.

The Official doesn't react, “Of course, if you're threatening me we can make different _arrangements_.”

Darien sighs, “Alright. You've got me.” He stands, let the Quicksilver slip up under his clothes, not yet visibly invisible, “I’ll see you Monday morning.”

“You'll be in tomorrow-” The Official starts as Darien thickens the Quicksilver enough to leak through his clothes.

He starts walking even as he vanishes, “Sorry, can't hear you over the seventeen million dollar Gland in my head. I'll see you Monday.”

He hears The Official chuckle as leaves, which makes him feel a little less cool about the whole situation. Couldn't even let him have this.


	3. (III) Many-venomed Earth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some violence in this one, also a probably innacurate portrayal of someone in isolation dealing poorly. Some not so great thoughts in general, and references to suicide, and God just, the general bad medical and psychiatric practices of this show? Plus some misogyny by a villain towards the end. Just as a heads up to the whole three people who might read this.

Darien slips into invisibility and into The Agency's building. There's a little discomfort down the back of his spine at the thought of using Quicksilver again so soon after hitting QSM, and at the knowledge it's his first ‘ _job_ ’ since he got dragged into this whole situation. Still, he has to undercut The Official's plan before it truly gets started if he wants to stay in control of his own life.

He moves through the halls soundlessly, up on the balls of his feet and retracing the walk he memorised back to the room he met with The Official in. He has a suspicion, and as he approaches the emblem of the Department of Fish and Wildlife Services, he finds it confirmed. His fingers slip under the wood and pull it free, revealing the safe underneath. It's an older model, with a dial. He hasn't had to fiddle with one of those in a while, but he thinks he still knows the trick for it, though he'll probably want to be able to hear without the dull reverb that Quicksilver adds to his hearing. He drops the coating, shakes the feeling of _shifting-crackling_ _something_ off, and sets about cracking the safe. It's easy enough. Easier than he expected, and that just sets his anxiety on higher alert. He works on calming himself back down as he lifts his file from the safe, skimming through it for the information he needs.

There isn't the specific chemical formula for Counter-agent written down, but apparently the Counter-agent _is_ kept in a fridge in the basement. He slips the file back in, and closes everything behind him. Hopefully he can find the formula in the basement, and if he can't, he supposes he'll just have to steal some Counter-agent, see if he can't find someone who can tell him how to make it from the actual stuff. Reverse engineer it.

In retrospect he should have kept the needle he got from Arnaud. He's not sure who he'll go to if he needs to break down the Counter-agent, maybe Kevin knew someone interested in chemistry?

He takes a bit to navigate his way around the bizarrely laid out Agency, eventually finding his way down to the basement. It splits off into what seems to be cells and a large lab area. He's pretty sure he knows where he's headed.

The lab is large, round, and mostly sparse. Fitted with fridges, tables and cabinets lining the walls, it's cluttered with scientific bits and pieces, most he recognises from the Quicksilver project, or just, general doctor type paraphernalia. A computer tucked in one corner, not too far from a hellish looking chair that seems to have been dragged straight out of every nightmare about dentists ever. Regardless, it's surprisingly homely for a room filled with equipment designed to dissect and examine. A sense of personality in the arrangement. It's almost the feeling of a home just moved into, all the boxes are unpacked, but nothing's lived in, yet.

He picks through the draws and cabinets, but he can't find even a hint of paper. He frowns, the computer is _definitely_ password protected, and he's not a tech guy. Looks like it's stealing Counter-agent, then. He slips over to the fridges, pulls out his lockpicks and sets to opening them.

He hears the door open behind him, and freezes. Heels loud on the concrete. Not The Official, and probably not an actual Agent if they're wearing heels to try and apprehend him. He doubles down on trying to unlock the fridge, he might be able to just grab and dash if he-

The individual whistles. He slips the lockpicks back into their kit and turns on the ball of his foot. The individual is short, blonde, female, watching him with a barely restrained disgust, and dressed up with an air of practical neatness. All his time with Kevin in the Quicksilver project has him clearly labelling her as a scientist type. It's the way none of her hair or clothes are loose, hair in a neat bun, and even her sleeves tight around her wrists so they don't dangle in any dangerous substances. It's probably her lab, which means she should know who he is, which begs the question of why she's confronting him, instead of letting whatever limited security The Agency can afford do it.

Well, he supposes he could just cut straight to it, “Who're you?

She chuckles, almost incredulous, and in a move smoother and quicker then he expected of a scientist in high heels, pulls a gun from underneath her jacket and points it at him, “I'm your Keeper.”

She pulls the trigger. It's not the resounding bang of an actual gun, but the sort of sucking noise of something phenomic. The needle plugs into his chest and he wobbles a little from the impact. That would be a tranquilizer, then.

Of course.

-

He wakes up with a dull headache and a mouth full of cotton. He's on his back and-

He opens his eyes and looks down.

-in a straight jacket and a padded room. That bodes well. He pulls his legs up to his chest, then rolls up onto his feet, he falters, stumbles a little, but doesn't fall back onto his ass, so he takes that as a win. He looks the room over. One door, no handles, and a large mirror, which is obviously a one way mirror. It's a safe bet he's being observed, then.

Well. He can out-wait anybody. If the game is forbearance then The Agency has chosen the very worst opponent. He drops back onto the floor, crosses his legs, and starts counting minutes.

He loses count and patience about ten minutes in.

In retrospect he's _perhaps_ the worst opponent because he's easily bored.

“Whatever,” he grumbles, then louder, “You guys still there?”

He waits a moment, but no answer is forthcoming.

“Well, worth a shot.”

He hops back up onto his feet and sets about giving the room a proper examination. Who knows? Maybe he'll find a loose panel that he can work into something usable with the _incredible dexterity of his feet_. Yep. Sounds plausible.

Still, he goes poking at the seams for anything usable. He stays by the door for a while, but it's sealed beyond anything he can manage without his hands. There's a raised block he can sit on and absolutely nothing else of note in the room. He looks the mirror over again, there's an indent in the padded material he knows he'd be able to dig his fingers into, and he thinks he can see some wires tucked away beneath it. He shoves himself in one of the corners, where he definitely isn't sulking.

If his hands were free he'd be out of here in moments.

He stares at the mirror thoughtfully, then looks at the small glass view square in the door. Probably it isn't actually glass, but most things tend to get brittle when the temperature drops. Between his head and his bare feet he's got enough uncovered skin to fairly easily Quicksilver and freeze over the window or the mirror. So, actually, he could get out of here, break things down and vanish, but he'd still need the Counter-agent.

He can escape. He just can't afford to. Balls in their court.

Maybe this is a punishment, or a proof of concept? Break the rules and he'll get sent to time out.

If they didn't want someone who broke the rules, though, they probably shouldn't have stuck The Gland in him.

He tries to catch up on some sleep, but he can't get comfortable on the floor, and the block is too short to be viable. He paces the room some more, stares down at the exposed wires tucked behind the mirror. He's sure they're connected to the speakers or some monitoring device, and if he could just _break them_ , he'd get someone in to at least break up the boredom.

Seeing as staring at it isn't doing any good, and might bring it to The Agency's attention, he shoves himself back into a corner and, at a loss, tries to recite whatever poetry he still remembers from high school.

That gets boring too, eventually, not that it was _particularly_ interesting in the first place, but _still_. He honestly has half a mind to break the mirror and make a run for it, he knows it'll only make the situation worse. He _knows_. But he's _bored_. He needs to do something. He stands up. Paces. Counts the length of the place in steps, then the width, then the diagonal. Shoves himself between the block and the wall and tries to shove it over with his feet. It refuses to give.

He considers just going invisible, practicing with it, but he's got no guarantee that he's going to be getting the Counter-agent any time soon and he's already used more Quicksilver then he'd have liked. Plus, the impulsivity of QSM is only going to make sitting in an empty room even more hellish.

He hopes he's not going to be in here too long, he _just_ replaced all the food in his apartment that had gone off because he hadn't been home in like, two months. If he has to replace it all again, he's asking for a raise. Assuming he's getting paid for working with The Agency. He better be getting paid. He bets they'll get pissed off if he goes around making use of The Gland for _personal reasons_ , so they _better_ be paying him.

He's not sure how long he's been stuck in the room, but he's counted his steps twice more and actually gotten a short nap. Course, he woke up to the beginnings of a headache, and, well, based on his experience three days prior, he's going to say it's the start of QSM, and not dehydration. Course, his eyes look fine in the mirror. He looks _generally_ like hell, but his eyes are fine, and that's a minor relief.

It's not yet a significant enough headache to give him pause, but it is something to note.

He's not sure how long he has before he hits red eyes, but if he doesn't use any Quicksilver, it could be a while. He'd used a lot in escaping from the facility, and the headache had been around for a while. He had at least an hour between meeting Hobbes and heading for Arnaud and he used quite a bit of Quicksilver there. So. Generous estimate at a while? The headache isn't even at the point where he'd mistaken it for dehydration last time. He probably has a good couple hours of sanity, then.

Yay.

It's interesting that no one's come to talk to him yet, or even just bothered him over the intercom he can see on the ceiling. If they haven't come to talk yet, they're probably not interested in talking at all. It's either punishment, or they're waiting for something. His mind starts to run off on a half dozen tangents about what that _something_ could possibly be, but he's pretty sure he knows. They want to see him hit QSM. Maybe they need to test their Counter-agent? Maybe they think he'll be more agreeable to something. Take advantage of the increased impulsiveness to get him to make some deal he wouldn't normally?

He's not sure of the why, but it doesn't matter, he's not going to plunge into insanity just because he's bored.

And hungry. When was the last time he ate? He had a small snack before shopping, and he remembered breakfast for once, but it's been who knows how long since either of those meals. He wishes they'd left his watch. Or his phone. Obviously that might defeat the whole purpose, but _still_. Wait. Nevermind. he'd need his hands to use either of those. Though he's sure he could improvise. Work something out, if it was that or boredom.

He rocks up onto his feet, pushing away from the block and staring down the mirror. His eyes don't show any sign of red, and the pale light leaves him washed out. Creates a hollowness to his cheekbones. He's not a pretty sight, but that's fine. He's not staring at himself. He's staring down whoever they've put on observation duty. Or, he's trying to. His own face is kind of distracting.

He looks sick.

He sighs, drops back onto the block and stares at the speakers.

“No chance of you giving me the time, I suppose?” He tries.

No response.

“Fine, that's fine.” He nods, “How about this? You tell me what the goal of this is, and I can help out with it? Then we all get to go home, and eat. Am I going to get food? Or is this a 'See how long it takes him to starve to death’ kinda situation?”

No response.

“The silent treatment huh? That's really annoying.” He drops his chin against his chest, “I really hope your tech in here actually works, and isn't just for show, cause that'd be kind of embarrassing, and also, _really annoying_ , but, then, your funding, is what? Pocket change? Would you be able to afford to replace this stuff if it broke?”

No response.

Darien glares at the speakers. He's pretty sure he could break them if he just got the Quicksilver going upwards, which he's pretty sure is possible? He has some control over the direction of the Quicksilver, so he could probably get it to go upwards, it just, might take a lot of practice and expend way more then he’s willing to use.

Sure, hitting QSM is probably the way out, but if they aren't going to at least talk to him, they'll learn he can be obstinate too.

-

The steady increase of his headache is subtle enough that when the attack slams it's claws into the base of his neck he's not expecting it. He's glad the room is padded when his head hits the floor and he curls up, at least he's not at risk of smashing open his skull. It passes, and he lets himself go limp, arms even more tangled and uncomfortable in the jacket then they were. He grits his teeth, frustration rising like the tide and he struggles with the jacket, shoulders hunching up and-

Oh!

-settling as the fabric stretches just enough to give him considerable slack, his arms no longer straining awkwardly. He relaxes, still panting from exertion, but no longer constrained to discomfort.

‘ _Alright_ ,’ he thinks, ‘ _show time_.’

He glances up at the mirror, catches sight of his thankfully still white sclera and grabs onto his ire. It's guilt tripping time.

He figures either he pulls on their empathy enough to get the Counter-agent before actually hitting the painful insanity stage, or he hits QSM well and proper with his anger at least focused on pissing off The Official and his Agency.

Around panting breaths which are a little put on, he'll admit, he asks, “Ok, is this your game, then?”

No response, but then, he doesn't need one for this performance.

“You need me red eyed for something?” He narrows his eyes at the mirror, “I go insane and you kill me to pull The Gland out, maybe? You could frame that as necessity.” he stands, puts his face inches from the mirror, stares at his own frustrated expression, “but then, you're what? Some shadowy, whatever organisation? You probably wouldn't need to justify _anything_. You want me dead. You could kill me. So, you don't want me dead, _yet_.”

He lets that statement mull, turns back on the ball of his foot and drops on the block, head against the wall, lazily, he begins, “A test then, maybe? For me? Or for your benefit?” Leaning forwards, he prods, “Maybe you want to see what the exact effects of the Madness are before you stick this thing in someone else, and I'm-” he forces a laugh, “oh I'm the _definition_ of expendable. Spirited away from jail to some secret project. I turn up dead, no one bats an eye.”

‘ _If I turn up at all_ ,’ he thinks, bitterly.

A slow rise of pain begins in his spine and he swears, hopping up to his feet and making eye contact with himself in the mirror. He catches his own terrified expression the second before the pain clamps down on his muscles and he's back on the floor. He keeps curled up around himself, like it'll offer some protection from the problem, like it isn't all in his head, quite literally. It's not fair that it hurts beyond anything he can compare to, and is also ridiculously exhausting. He'd crawl under a rock and die if he could.

He doesn't care anymore. Con over. He'll do whatever he needs to to make this stop.

He loosens his muscles, focuses on breathing, on quieting his heartbeat. Asks, quiet and earnest, “Is this _really_ necessary?”

No response.

Are they even actually observing him? Maybe they've just shut him in here while they prepare whatever they need to pull him apart and tear The Gland out. Maybe he's more useful to them painfully insane. Maybe they're just leaving him here to starve.

He rolls on to his back. Limp. Stares at the lights and watches the patterns of shadow as his eyes adjust.

Is he getting out of here?

He could still break the mirror. He could break the tech, and the window. Go invisible and run for it, but what would that do for him? He'd just hit madness quicker. Maybe he could steal some Counter-agent, administer it to himself and track down someone to translate the dregs of the formula still contained into something usable. Except, of course, just cause someone knows the makeup of the stuff doesn't mean they'd know how it's mixed, or stored, or anything like that. Maybe he could give himself the Counter-agent and ask very, _very_ nicely to not be dragged back here, or put down.

He just doesn't get it.

It seems unnecessarily cruel-

Ok, that's not true, he's biased. They don't know how much it hurts. They don't know what it's like. It probably doesn't register to them that this is basically torture, and, hey, The Official already implied ownership of Darien. Well, actually, that _was_ Eberts, but it may as well have been The Official, he was clearly acting as his Boss’s mouthpiece. The point is, even if they knew, would they stop?

Doubtful.

It seems unfair that he's the criminal here and he's got the most empathy. Ok. He's being irrational, and paranoid. If they didn't need him, they'd kill hi-

Ow. He drops, convulses, swears under his breath.

Ok, that's enough of _that_. No more self pitying, spirals of misery. He's doing something about this.

He stands up, glares, then demands, voice layered in anger and with rage pulsing at his skull, “What _crap_ are you trying to pull? How are you _justifying_ this to yourselves? Stick a guy in a room and watch his sanity degrade, huh? _What's the point of it?_ ”

He shoves his face against the mirror, tries to see through to its innards ( _he should just break it. See what happens. Cause a little chaos._ ).

He growls, “Let me out,” then, more insistent, “ _Let me out._ ”

They don't. Of course. Can't even do him the courtesy of responding.

He stares into the void of his irises, _demands_ , “This is just _another experiment_ to you, isn't it? I _know_ you're watching me.” He breathes out, heavy and frustrated, “You think this is fun, _don't you_? A little bit of light entertainment?”

( _They want a mad man? Give them what they want._ )

He feels Quicksilver bead on his palms, down his neck and-

Something's wrong.

-he falters. He's not acting like himself.

He catches the red in the reflection, stumbles back. Understanding tugged out from under him. He's letting it get the better of him. He _can't_ just run for it. He knows why he can't. He _knows_. He just- he needs to focus. Needs to think.

He closes his eyes, tries to breathe, and backs away from the mirror, “I'm sorry.” He meets his reflection, “I'm sorry.”

What he wouldn't give for a little clarity.

He laughs, a tiny, insecure, little noise, keeps talking cause it's that or spiral downwards through his thoughts, and his brain isn't a very nice place at the moment, “Maybe you want this to be over as much as I do.”

No response.

He forges on, “Course, the difference is, you actually get to decide when this is over.”

No response.

The red spirals out from his irises. He's pretty sure that's not how blood vessels work, actually, “So why don't you just put an end to this already?”

 _No response_.

He starts pacing the room, muttering under his breath. He needs to be moving, and talking and _not thinking_ , or he'll do something everyone will regret, and he's not going to do that. So he paces and rambles.

The fact he's still starving doesn't help. Probably dehydrated too. How long has it been? He really has to wonder if they're actually watching him at all. He's in QSM, all red eyed and hardly able to think. That's what they wanted, right?

Eventually the frustration rises to the point where he needs to sit down or he's going to _break something_ , so he drops on the block and sticks his forehead against the wall, eyes closed as he focuses on not breaking anything.

The attack hits him, he curls in on himself, and stays like that a moment. Before stubbornly sticking his head back against the wall. The pressure at least distracts from the constant thrum of his headache.

He hears the door pull open, a soft dragging noise, and then thud softly closed. Maybe he's finally getting food. Or getting out of here. He'll take either, honestly.

“Hey mate,” the suddenness of the voice, the unexpected _loudness_ of it, shoving against his aching skull, leaves him flinching, “Looking good.”

He smiles, mirthless, “Oh, well I'm trying to make the cover of labrat monthly. What's your excuse?”

“Been up forty-six hours watching you.” It's the woman who tranqed him, he's pretty certain even without looking. His brain snags on the information she's offered, _forty-six hours_ , almost two days. _If_ she's being honest. It could be some manipulation. Even if she is telling the truth, it could be a way to earn some favour. An offer to butter him up.

His frustrations swirl in his gut, “Well-” he says, open ended as he makes his rebuttal _clear_.

The chill of Quicksilver is a relief in some ways, a disparate sensation breaking up the kind of physical monotony he'd been spiralling in. He stands up, slow and quiet, careful to not overbalance or make too much sound. He's clumsy not just from QSM and pain, but also the padding on the floor. Still, the art of silence is one he's well practiced at, and he doesn't make a noise as he circles round the woman. He has the height advantage on her, he notices, and he's sure if it came to it, he could take her in a fight, but he doesn't want this to end in a fight, and he doesn't want her _touching him_.

She'd introduced herself as _'his_ _Keeper_ , like she owns him, some hindbrain irrationality argues. He ignores it. Looks her over.

She's obviously tired, from the bags under her eyes, to the hints where her perfect neatness has slipped. A hair out of place, an odd crease in her shirt. Little things.

She's staring firmly at the wall, when she says, carefully, “Shyness is cute, but it's only bringing you closer to madness.” He pauses, listens, “Most you can look forwards to is six days of sanity, and every use of Quicksilver cuts into the clock. You're about thirty minutes to the last stage of QSM, without Quicksilver. Are you sure you want to-”

He steps between her and the exit and drops the Quicksilver. He'd forgotten. He doesn't want to make it worse, and turning invisible as a comeback is just _stupid_. He's being stupid and impulsive, and if he wants to get out of this with anything to his name he's got to be intelligent. He can't afford to just react.

He ducks his head, “Well, you're the doctor.”

He hopes she's actually a doctor, and not just a particularly trigger happy med-tech.

He stares at her chin, and asks, more desperate then he dares to admit, “So _what do I do_?”

“Take The Official's deal.” she starts, he doesn't interrupt, “Work for him, while I keep you sane, and work out how to remove The Gland.”

He raises an eyebrow, prods, “Kevin knew how to take it out.”

“Most of the project files were destroyed. What we've got we recovered from Arnaud, and from the few servers that hadn't been destroyed.” She counters. It's about the answer he expected, and he's got no way to confirm one way or the other.

Still, he isn't in the right state of mind to avoid muttering a biting, “Funny how that works.”

“Funny,” she agrees, without humour.

‘ _Take the deal, huh?_ ’ he thinks, viciously, ‘ _the deal where I work for a secret government agency, or go permanently insane? The deal I've no guarantee your Official won't go back on because he wants me doing something morally disgusting? The deal I get nothing out of?_ That _deal?_ ’

He spits, “I'm not going to be The Official's dog.”

She flinches, says, “Then don't.” And steps towards him, “You've got a gift, mate. With it, _you could be something brilliant._ ”

It hits him like a bullet to the brain. He barely keeps from stumbling, his face only blank from the effort it would take to look like anything else. It's not fair. She's using _his_ words against him, and Darien knows it's not on purpose. Couldn't possibly be. Even if it was, he knows it would still throw him.

Is this what Kevin would have wanted for him? Blackmailed into working for a secret agency? Maybe the question is more, what alternatives are there? He's only getting out of this with his sanity _maybe_ intact one way. So, is he willing to do that to his brother's memory? Throw his life's work to the wayside because Darien can't bend to an unpleasant situation?

( _It's more than an unpleasant situation, he knows. He knows he's basically signing away control of his life. He knows he won't have any real freedom if he agrees, but he also knows the alternative isn't any better._ )

Well, bro? You win.

His Keeper- _His Keeper-_ continues, “Or, without guidance, it could destroy you. Now, call me crazy, but I kind of want to see how this ends.”

He swallows vile understanding, says quietly and with a little hysterical humour, “I'm the crazy one here.”

“Prove to me you can be something more.” She dares, eyes flaring intently.

He knows he's lost, but he's not going to just lie down and bare his belly, quietly he asks, daring in his own way, “How can I trust you?”

“Because, I came in here knowing you could go insane and kill me. Trust works both ways.” She moves toward him, staring up. It's a good argument, as far as they go, even if he's only about to go insane because they're the only ones with the Counter-agent. He supposes that she might have as little choice in this situation as he does, but he squashes the thought as soon as it appears. He can't know if she's manipulating him, and he can't afford to sympathize if she's just going to turn on him down the road.

He closes his eyes, breathes out through his nose. It doesn't matter if she's manipulating him. If he doesn't play nice, _if he doesn't agree_ , he doesn't get out of here. It's that simple. He nods, “Alright, I'll take the deal.”

She smiles, sweet as venom, and pulls a needle from within her jacket. He bows his head, so she can reach his neck, resists the urge to tense up as the needle slips into his flesh, and feels the Counter-agent _burn_. She pulls the needle back out, backs up, and watches him carefully. It takes a few seconds for the fatigue to hit him, and he lets himself fold under it, idly noting somewhere in the back of his brain that it’s much quicker then Arnaud's version. He sits down on the floor, letting the Counter-agent's clarity slowly settle and disperse the fog of aggression and impulsiveness.

Well. He's just agreed to a deal with the poorly funded, secret government agency that's blackmailing him. There's no way _that'll_ backfire.

Forcefully light hearted, because it's that or panic attack, he asks, “Am I allowed to go home and shower now? Do I have to sign some stuff, or-?”

He actually gets a chuckle out of her, and counts it as a win.

-

He absconds as quickly as he's able, negotiating his clothing and equipment back, and getting changed in The Agency's toilets. Eberts tries to stop him on his way out, but Darien makes it very clear he's going home, he's going to have a shower, eat something decent and work himself into feeling like a person again, and if The Official could handle waiting forty-six hours for him to go QSM, he can wait three more for Darien to sort himself out.

He doesn't precisely remember actually walking home, but seeing as he arrives, he doesn't give a crap. He gets halfway through eating a sandwich in his heist clothes before the desperate need to be clean overtakes his hunger, and he showers. He spends an obscenely long time under the water, even by his awful time keeping standards. He makes a note he'll probably forget to limit his hot water usage over the next few days so his bills don't get too ridiculous.

He stares down his face in the mirror, checks his eyes for red, and when he finds none, he keeps staring until he recognises his own reflection.

He throws out the sandwich he half finished eating, the bread is hard from however long he was in the shower, but he knows it's been almost two days since his last proper meal and he needs to eat something more substantial, so he grabs a muesli bar, makes a coffee that's eighty percent milk, and reads whatever book he puts his hand on first. By the time he stops rereading the same three sentences over and over again he's feeling a little more like himself. Not at the standard he'd usually want to be to go and negotiate terms with secret government Agent people who have already bested him twice, but then again, he's not sure he'd ever really be in a good enough state of mind to deal with that. At the very least it would take longer then the three hours he's allotted himself, and probably already surpassed.

He gives himself ten seconds, then puts the book back on its shelf, downs a glass of water, and makes himself look presentable. He takes a bit of makeup to the bags under his eyes, and adds a bit of colour to his cheeks so he doesn't look as drained as he feels. He can't afford to have any visible weaknesses for this. Finally he heads out.

He makes it halfway down the stairs before remembering his sunglasses, which he runs back to his apartment to grab, and _then_ he heads out.

He storms his way into The Official's office and drops himself in one of the low seated chairs, sprawling and secretly glad The Official is already in the room, cause it would've been _very_ embarrassing to have to track him down.

The Official looks up from his paperwork, affronted, and Eberts looks surprised, and, maybe a little pleased? If Darien isn't reading into anything.

“I work for you now.” Darien says, “So, here's the deal. I won't kill, and I reserve the right to deny any job I think is morally reprehensible. I get paid the same as any of your other _willing_ Agents, I get the same vacation, and the same health benefits.”

He lets that sink in, and waits for The Official to start to protest before continuing.

“And the second you work out how to remove The Gland _safely_ , I'm out of here with whatever severance and references you can give me.” He bares his teeth in a grin that feels as lopsided as he does, “We have a deal?”

The Official's eyes narrow, and behind him, Eberts looks confused.

Darien slips his sunglasses down, just a touch, raises an eyebrow, waits for a response.

Finally, The Official replies, “You'll get what I choose to give you, and nothing more.”

Darien puts his hand on his heart, gasps, and then, dare in his eyes, asks, “Why?”

“We have the Counter-agent, and you won't run off without it. You're too moral.” The Official explains, calmly.

“Right. So, I won't kill anyone, and I reserve the right to deny any job I find morally reprehensible.” Darien leans back, fixes his sunglasses, “Because, after all, if I'm too moral to risk what I would do while red eyed, but you're having me do things I find ethically, mmm, let's say _dubious_ while sane and in control of myself. Well. I don't see how my morals sensibilities would allow that.”

The Official raises an eyebrow, looking almost impressed, “Alright. No killing. You weren't going to be doing assassinations anyway, anyone could see you don't have the stomach for it.”

It's an attack to distract from the fact The Official's just given ground. Darien refuses to let it phase him, and he prods, “So I'll be spying on people? Collecting information that would otherwise be impossible to get. Stealing evidence and circumnavigating security. I suppose.”

“You'll do the job you're given.” The Official says.

“I can turn invisible, every time I do, it saturates my blood with Quicksilver, which means I need Counter-agent sooner. Is that an expense you can afford?” Darien asks.

The Official smiles thinly, “If we can't afford it, the only one hurt is you, and maybe anyone around you.”

Darien's own grin falls, a little. Ok. He hadn't thought of that. Crap.

The Official chuckles, “Good try kid, but I've been doing this since you were in diapers.”

Darien slouches.

“You'll be paid as well as any other field agent, and once we can remove The Gland, we'll set you up with what you need to find a new job, if you want one.” The Official says, offhand.

Darien stares, thrown. _What_?

The Official flips through some papers, “Sit up, you'll ruin your back, and we've got a job ready for you, anyhow. You'll be excited to hear you'll be working with our best Agent on this.”

He isn't excited, actually.

“Better than Hobbes?” he asks, just in time for the door to open and the man himself to walk in. Darien makes his displeasure clear on his face.

“He's been in therapy.” The Official offers, almost sheepish.

Incredibly, whether or not Hobbes has seen a professional about his mental health has little effect on Darien's mood about working with him again. Seeing as last time he got a gun pointed at him and Hobbes spent half of their meeting setting himself up as the dumbest secret agent in the world. Darien's been to therapy too, and it didn't do jack for his intelligence.

“Were you talking about me?” Hobbes asks, reading the room as he sits in the other chair. Darien makes a show of sitting up normally, and putting his sunglasses away.

“I was just informing Darien that he'd been assigned my most competent agent as his partner.” The Official says.

Hobbes preens. Darien bites his tongue to keep from pointing out how obvious that manipulation was.

“Well, of course. You'll be in good hands, Fawkes.” Hobbes says.

“Sure,” Darien says, rubbing at his forehead, “Anyway, what are we actually doing, now everyone's arrived?”

“You'll be bringing in Charlie Faulgardy, an extremely dangerous, and mentally ill, patient who recently escaped from the San Pablo Military Infirmary.” Eberts explains.

“Dangerous how?” Darien asks, suspicious.

“He's a Catevari.” Eberts says, and then his eyes widen in alarm and The Official shoots him a look that suggests he screwed up.

“What's a Catevari?” Darien leans forwards in his seat, “Sounds made up.”

“You don't need to know.” The Official says, “Just know that he kills people, very quickly, and very violently, and you're to bring him in _alive_.”

“We just established I don't kill people-” Darien glances at Hobbes, “Do you kill people?”

“If my country needs me too.” Hobbes says, without a hint of irony.

“Wonderful.” Darien scrubs at his face, “Anything else we should know?”

Eberts squirms, like he has something to say, but he keeps quiet, and Darien knows he hasn't earned enough loyalty to get answers from him. Not yet, anyway. It's a work in progress.

“Get going.” The Official declares, turning his attention back to his papers.

-

It turns out Hobbes’ _actual_ car is an old van that, even with Darien's limited knowledge of cars is obviously strung together out of so many repair jobs and replacements that the original van might not even be left underneath it. More importantly than that, though, it's got a tall enough roof that he's not uncomfortable sat in it.

As Hobbes pulls them away from the Agency, Darien fishes his phone out and searches _'Catevari_ ’.

“You're on your phone?” Hobbes grouses, “We're on a mission-”

“Shhh.” Darien holds up a finger for quiet as he frowns at the screen.

‘ _Catevari, an old Latin term from a folk tale, telling the story of a woman fed a small portion of poison from birth, until she eventually became poisonous herself. The tale possibly originated from Mithridates VI's attempts to foster immunity to poison._ ’

“Did you just shush me?” Hobbes demands, incredulous, “I know you're new to this but-”

“Do you know what a Catevari is, Hobbes?” Darien cuts in.

“It doesn't matter, we're here to bring him in, not ask questions.” Hobbes argues.

“That's dumb, but look, I just looked it up on my phone and it's like, a person who produces poison. Like from their body.” Darien let's that sink in, “We're going to apprehend a killer who is poisonous to the touch, Hobbes.”

Hobbes makes a dismissive gesture with his hand, “You can't believe everything on the internet, Fawkes. Anyone can just make stuff up.”

“Sure, but Eberts called him a Catevari, and everything I can find on the subject points to a poison man. So it might be, you know, _slightly_ relevant.” Darien argues, “Might be good to know if we're trying to catch a guy who's poisonous to the touch, _before_ we touch him.”

“Just cause you can turn invisible doesn't mean anything. I've been in this business for years, and I've never run into something like you until you. This guy's just a psychotic killer, and we're bringing him in alive. That's it. No more questions.” Hobbes explains, firm, and gaze hard on Darien, enough to keep him from further argument, anyway.

He shrugs, “Fine.” And they sit the rest of the ride in silence.

-

San Pablo Military Infirmary is a squat series of sprawling buildings, all the trappings of military efficiency, and not a hint of liveliness or comfort in its outward facade. It has the exact air of a haunted asylum from a horror movie, and it leaves an uncomfortable ball of ice under Darien's ribs. It doesn't look like a place people go to get better. It just looks like every stereotype about dangerous mental patients rolled into one.

Hobbes doesn't seem bothered, but then, apparently nothing bothers him in pursuit of the job required of him by his country. Darien isn't quite sure whether Hobbes is an idiot, or utterly terrifying, his opinion changes pretty frequently, but for now, he's settled on _terrifying_.

Pleasantly enough, as they approach the fence line the hospital's sign is invitingly vandalized with a message in _something_ , too dark to be blood, but clearly not paint. Course, the effectiveness of the imagery is somewhat lessened by the oversaturation of the passage rendered.

 _‘if you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back at you’_. _  
_

Sure, bud, sure.

Darien chooses to not let it phase him, and after they pull up outside the institution, the degradation of the buildings flat, concrete, blocks, is clearly the only thing detracting from an otherwise clinical sense of restraint and lacking personality. He falls into step behind Hobbes, ignoring the tingle of discomfort down his spine. He was locked in a padded room less than six hours ago, and the familiar phases of this place set him on edge. A lingering discomfort tracing prickling circles on his palms and pushing against the back of his eyes.

He doesn't like this place, and he knows, sure as anything, that he'd tear out his own throat before allowing himself to be held here.

It's an odd thought. Violent, and unexpected. No less true for its suddenness, but an unusual conclusion to have come to within seconds of seeing the buildings up close. It's like deja vu for an event that never happened. He swallows his nerves, decides to ignore the phantom press of the straight jacket around his shoulders, and needles in his arm. He's just freaked out from forty-six hours in the padded room, spiraling into madness. He's fine. He'll be fine.

Hobbes, at least, doesn't appear to be bothered, carrying an air of cool professionalism in his casual stride. He gets the two of them in with a brandishing of his badge, before they're directed deeper into the facility. The smell of death hits Darien, and lingers in the back of his throat as they move past a truly ridiculous amount of bodies. He sees a few uncovered heads, notes somewhere in the back of his brain that it's only the doctors lying dead. A paleness to the skin, blue lips, dark veins. Obvious poisoning. A couple have scratches on their faces, deep boroughs where the blood is thick, black, and wrong to look at.

They're joined quick enough by one of the surviving doctors, a woman who introduces herself as Dr Rasal. Darien let's Hobbes do the talking, mostly so he doesn't get told off for something inane again, but in part because the day has been too long already, and his social interaction metre is at a steady zero. He's not in the right state of mind to try and work out what every shift of weight, twitch of facial muscles and change of tone might imply about the conversation, or Hobbes and Dr Rasal's current disposition.

He can practically taste a static pushing at his brain from pure social exhaustion, even if his social interaction has been limited to mostly none over the past couple days, he's exhausted in a more literal sense as well, and frankly the few conversations he has had have required way more attention and involved a lot more strangers then he's happy to deal with.

They're lead through the halls, all similar walls and unpatterned floors. Familiar through repetition, but they soon enough are brought to the room that Faulgardy escaped from. There's a number of patients, dead in their beds, and the stench of it clings to the walls. There's a miasma of rage to the room. These murders weren't necessary ( _they were sleeping, he thinks_.), and the lack of blood and obvious violence doesn't degrade the pure presence of _aggression_ that clogs the air. Darien can just about taste it.

He wanders a little, as Hobbes interrogates Dr Rasal, looking over the bodies, while keeping his distance, so as to not choke on the scent of decay. The marks dragged through the flesh are vicious, and he can make out where the skin has torn ragged where it clung to Faulgardy's fingernails. He can just about see it. He imagines, Faulgardy's fingernails grown out into almost claws, sweat running poisonous and clinging to the nails. Enraged and desperate slashes. Small revenges. His eyes settle on one individual, smiling peacefully. He steps closer. There's no hint of obvious claws marks till he checks the patient's hands, crossed, limp and marred by small divots. None of the otherwise obvious aggression. It's almost polite ( _Small mercies. He thinks._ ).

He frowns, thoughtfully. It's interesting, certainly. Maybe they were fr-

The hand falls on his shoulder and he nearly jumps out of his skin. Feels Quicksilver trickle down the back of his neck in anxious reaction. He widens his eyes at Hobbes, snaps, “What?”

Hobbes glares up at him, “I asked what you were looking at.”

Darien settles his heart, glares back, “Ask louder.”

“I did.” Hobbes argues, “Not my fault you were off in fairy land. You're not going to get anything out of this if you're not paying attention.”

Rage rises like bile, Darien spits, “I was examining the bodies. It's obvious revenge. Faulgardy may not have hated the other patients, but he probably didn't care for them much either, and who knows what the poison actually did to his brain. He certainly _seems_ to have a lot of aggression to go around. So he got his chance and he killed everyone because he was pissed. I'd say most everyone here was asleep when he attacked so there was no need, but he didn't care.”

“That's in character,” Hobbes says, dismissively, “you saw what he did to the Doctor's. What's your point?”

“The point, is that guy-” Darien gestures at the smiling patient, “-died a lot less traumatically. I'd figure they were friends, but it also means he's not completely out of it. It's not _just_ senseless killing. He's thinking at least rationally enough to put his friend down peacefully, and his friend certainly didn't have any problem with it.”

“Were they friends?” Hobbes asks Dr Rasal.

She nods, “He was one of the few patients who bothered to interact with Faulgardy.”

Hobbes’ nods his acknowledgement of the point, and begins looking over the body himself. Darien backs up, feels the rage die down and bites at the inside of his cheek. It's not QSM. _It's not_ , but, he still pulls out his phone and checks his eyes in the camera. He looks washed out, unexpectedly pale, and a little sickly, but there's no red in his eyes, and no headache chipping at his skull. He was just reacting to getting spoked. Nothing more.

Knowing that doesn't stop nausea from churning in his gut. Anxiety eating at this wonderful new worry.

Hobbes grabs the blanket from Faulgardy's bed in a sudden flourish, baring it like a flag to Faulgardy's violence. It's emblazoned with that same thick, dark substance. Not blood, unless it's darkened into the thick, almost paste due to the poison. Which, Darien figures, is possible.

It reads, _'I can see you. Reality is not what it used to be.’_

Something about that _settles_ somewhere. It's important, and he's _certain_ he knows the phrases from somewhere, but he can't put it to words. Can't focus it to make into sense. It's an odd day. An odder state of mind. He's not certain of himself, a few steps out of sync.

“Well, I'm thinking he's not done.” Hobbes announces.

-

Hobbes orders them back to the Agency to fill The Official in, and Darien's glad for it. The whole feel of the place had had him feeling static in his bones. He'd been constantly on edge, and even just a breath of fresh air is doing him good. Though he might be a little dehydrated, he's craving salt. That's a symptom of dehydration, right? Salt cravings? Probably not, actually. He'll have to look it up.

He follows Hobbes as he marches into the Official's office, certain in his understanding of the situation. Darien folds into a chair, let's Hobbes take the lead. It's been, by no small amount, an exhausting day.

“I think it's revenge.” Hobbes declares, loud and certain. The Official raises an eyebrow.

“Great,” he says, nonplussed, “On who?”

“Ah, well, I was thinking, um…sort of a general...revenge,” Hobbes mutters.

“A general revenge?” The Official replies, unimpressed.

“‘ _They get their fill before they think’,_ ” Darien cuts in, second hand embarrassment demanding he stop this right here, “‘ _With poisoned meat and poisoned drink._ ’, A.E Housman. Really melancholy bunch of poems. Poets are just, _like that_ , I guess. I'm not sure I get it? But, revenge, I know a bit about _that_. Well, your boy Charlie was Agency fodder, right? He was in _your_ psychiatric hospital, and he was there cause of your experiments.”

“And what experiments were those?” The Official asks, evenly.

“ _Catevari_ , feed someone poison till they become not only _immune_ , but poisonous themselves. 'cept, it didn't work like that, huh? Turns out feeding someone toxic substances just screws with them. Kept him immobile for years. So, here's my question. Why'd he wake up?” Darien demands, unfaltering.

The Official sighs, rubs at his eyes, “It was a different time, you have to understand.”

Not an auspicious start.

“I can't justify it by saying everyone was doing it, but they were, and we needed to keep up. Charlie was the best of us, he volunteered for the project, and,” a carefully curated pause, “he was my friend. When the neurotoxin paralyzed him we lost one our best agents. It's one of my greatest regrets not arguing against his participation.” The Official explains, solemn. Darien resists the urge to state his disbelief. Maybe it's true, but he doesn't trust it.

“That's why you want him brought back alive, then?” Hobbes asks, surprisingly astute.

The Official nods, “Now, what's this about revenge?”

“Oh? My opinion matters now?” Darien snarks.

“When your opinion is pertinent to the situation, yes. So, explain?” The Official tries to meet his eyes. Darien waves him off.

“Like you said, I've got some relevant experience, and you're what I'd be going after in his position.” He shrugs, absently.

“Why me?” The Official prods.

Darien's eyebrows shoot up, “You're responsible for the project. You wanted it done, you funded it, you wanted to make use of it. You're the reason i’m-”

He catches on. Glares.

“Hobbes, Fawkes, you're on protection duty for Senator Milton.” The Official declares, and staring Darien down, he adds, “Milton was head of the Agency those days. Based on _your_ expertise, he'll be the target. Capture Faulgardy, keep Milton alive, don't die. Good luck boys.”

-

Milton dies. That's- that's on Darien, he supposes, but the options were a man who tried to create a poisonous assassin, or an eleven month old baby. That's not a choice.

The child gets back to her mother. Darien makes sure, going with the police officer taking care of that and not just to avoid Hobbes confronting him. He really doesn't want to have to argue about saving the life of a baby, vs a politician on too little sleep and complete social exhaustion.

He manages some normality as the police officer explains the situation to the mother, introduces him as a random bystander. The mother, Kaydee O'Laughlin keeps talking to him. Offering gratitude and thanks, and Darien does his best to replicate normality, giving what platitudes and reassurances he can. She asks for his phone number, says she wants to thank him properly, lunch or something. Darien gives it, at which point Hobbes drags him out of the conversation.

Darien would really like to just crawl into a corner somewhere and shut down for a bit, but he gets the feeling that wouldn't be appreciated.

“Fawkes,” Hobbes spits, “What was that?”

Darien slumps into a lean against the wall. Eyes half lidded. Hobbes already thinks less then nothing of him, this won't change anything.

“Saved a baby,” he points out.

“You were _supposed_ to save Milton.” Hobbes glares.

“What would you have done, huh?” Darien bites, a little fire on his tongue. He doesn't move, or stand up properly, but he does open his eyes a little more.

“My job!”

“Alright,” Darien allows, “How?”

“What do you mean _how_? You're the one with the invisibility, you should have stopped Faulgardy before he even got that far.” Hobbes doesn't back down.

“Well, you're my superior, and you didn't spot him, even with all your training. So what would you have done, if it was a baby, or Milton, what would your choice have been?” Darien argues. He's pissed about a lot of stuff, he thinks, lots of layers of anger about various situations he has no idea what to do with, and it's all mingling with his complete exhaustion. He doesn't care. He just doesn't.

“I'd have done my job.” Hobbes repeats.

Something curdles in Darien's gut. His eyes ache, and he feels the beginnings of a headache pulsing at the base of brain. He stares Hobbes down, disgust written in his flesh, but not on his face because that would be too much effort at this point. He just sighs, rocks up onto his feet and almost falls over when his balance is completely screwed.

“Let's just go report.” He hisses between his teeth, heading for the van.

They get back to the Agency, and Hobbes doesn't storm, so much as thunder into The Official's room, all rumbling and threat in his stance. He pushes through the door and freezes. Darien runs into him, mind playing catch up with his body as he slowly comprehends the scene.

That-

That would be Faulgardy, fingernails clawed and held just beneath the Official's chin. If Hobbes was thunder, then Faulgardy is ice. A slow, methodical freeze. His actions are calm and his grin is closer to bared teeth then an expression of joy. Darien thinks on the nature of ice. On frostbite and frostburn and shifts in air so subtle you don't even notice. Blackened fingers. Digits. Limbs. Necrotic flesh. Infection untreated, and spreading, poison in its own right. Burying itself in the heart and killing you slowly. Watching your body break down. Flesh peeling and splintering.

Faulgardy's lip twitches, he's counting his odds. Darien takes in the scene, feels all out of place and out of control. The _threat_ here is obvious, but, he's not sure what to do.

Hobbes has his gun on Faulgardy, Darien wonders when that happened. Wonders what he should do.

Something- he should do _something_. Shouldn't he? What would happen if he just, didn't? What if he stood and watched? The Official isn't on his side, why on earth should Darien be on his? Why should he try and help? He can barely think straight and he's been condemned to weekly shots just so he doesn't go insane. What could he do anyway?

If he turns invisible won't Faulgardy kill The Official anyway?

Maybe he should turn invisible. Maybe he should let him die.

Maybe he's not thinking straight, but it's been a long day, and he can't quite muster enough energy to care. Not when there's an uncomfortable fog settling over his thoughts. All he's slept in the past forty-six or whatever it was hours were the naps he managed in the cell, and he had, what? Three hours before that, woke up early to hit up the Agency. He's- he thinks he has a right to be out of it. To be exhausted. To be confused.

He should do something. He shou-

Hobbes, Faulgardy, The Official and Eberts, are exchanging words. Darien realises he hasn't been listening, he looks up. Somewhere in his hindbrain he makes a decision, beads Quicksilver on his wrist, up under the sleeve of his shirt and slips around Hobbes, hands going up instantly.

“Hey,” he says, an excellent opening to his verbal volley, “Don't kill him, I need him to tell, and also pay people to make me not go insane on the weekly. So, one experiment to another, maybe don't do a murder?”

Faulgardy chuckles, simultaneously mirthless and rattling with a sincere joy, a conflict that rankles at the edges of Darien's thoughts, “'Fraid I can't do that bro. If I don't tip this world into calamity, it only gets _worse_ for me-”

A purposeful pause.

“-and you.”

Darien steps forward, wobbling, clumsy, down on the base of his feet, he hums “Mmm.”

It's not an agreement, just a noise to fill the air and sound over top of the heavy weight of the not quite silence.

“Probably if you wanna cause some proper chaos, get what was done to you out in the open, you shouldn't be killing people so wrapped up in secrets the only mention of their death will be a footnote in a briefing behind closed doors.” Darien tries.

Faulgardy bares his teeth, “That might be true, but this way’s a lot more enjoyable, Darien.”

Darien shrugs a shoulder, a lazy rolling motion as he steps forwards, hands still up, but wrists limp. He's carefree, unthreatened, “Mmm.”

“Oh, don't try that, Bro. You want him alive, you've gotta convince me.” Faulgardy's nails inch closer to The Official's neck. Darien stares.

He should just let him die, really. Wouldn't it make things easier?

“I'm really not in the right state of mind for a debate.” Darien admits.

“Unfortunate,” Faulgardy laughs, “I can't wait around for you to feel up to it, you un-”

Darien moves, threat in the air and acting on what is mostly impulse, the Quicksilver gathered on his forearm rolls down to his palm in the same instant Faulgardy reacts.

Darien is quicker. Faulgardy has been paralyzed for years, there's got to be muscle wastage to consider, but it doesn't matter that Darien moves faster. Faulgardy barely has to move at all. His nails swipe across The Official's flesh, and he throws The Official into Hobbes, making his exit.

Darien wraps his Quicksilvered palm around Faulgardy, stops him and stares down. Faulgardy's sunglasses slip, just an inch, but it's enough. Eyes milky white and damaged, hints of red, irritation from the poison, but so much more importantly, there's the perfect pool of crimson in the cornea's. Darien's grip loosens, he steps back. He-

He doesn't feel great.

Faulgardy's vanished, he notes distantly, and Hobbes is yelling something. Doesn't matter what. Doesn't-

It was like staring into a funhouse mirror.

-really affect him. He's got other things to think about. He's exhausted and this isn't helping.

Is that what's going to happen to him? An inevitable degradation into homicidal madness till he's unusable by The Agency and they shove him in a hospital, or tear his skull open for The Gland. Maybe it's a good thing The Official-

Hobbes grabs his arm, voice too loud, “What was that, Fawkes?”

Darien blinks, a little confused, a little out of it, his gaze falls on The Official, on the ground, on the angry nail gashes on his face. He thinks, static on his tongue, about frost, and steps around Hobbes, dropping to his knees, palm still coated in Quicksilver, he jams it against the wound, feels the liquid mass of Quicksilver dribble into the open wound and start freezing.

Necrotic flesh and frostburn. He almost feels like laughing, and he doesn't resist as Hobbes pulls him away from The Official, Quicksilver hardening, then flaking from his palm.

“What did you do?” Hobbes demands, all thunder and fury.

“Poison, froze it.” Darien says, looking at his feet, “Probably should get him to a Doctor though. It's still poison and frost bite to consider. Wouldn't want an infection.”

Hobbes drops him, hefts The Official to his feet, and is joined by Eberts on his other side. Darien follows the procession to the basement, mostly in a daze, and as his Keeper is called to care for the wound, he gets himself as out of the way as possible, leaning against a wall, waiting to hear what happens next, and trying not to think about the eyes behind the glasses.

-

Darien wakes to a surprisingly gentle shaking of his arm. It takes a moment for his brain to properly focus and he recognises Eberts as the one touching him.

“He was just asleep.” Eberts calls, and Darien carefully extricates himself from Eberts grip. He doesn't like to be touched at the best of times.

He stands, maneuvering around Eberts and looking over at The Official, he's lying on the dentists chair, eye closed, but wound bandaged, and clearly breathing. Darien's not sure how he feels about that, just yet.

His Keeper watches him, smiles, “That was some quick thinking Darien.”

It's a ploy, he thinks, a placation to try and endear him to her so he forgets about the fact that none of this is willing, “Yeah, well, I had frostbite on the brain.”

Her smile falters, apparently she's not quite sure how to react to that, “Well, because of you, The Official will make a full recovery. The poison couldn't spread. You did good.”

He's not so sure.

His Keeper checks The Official's bandages, and Darien grapples. He's not sure he should have saved The Official. Not sure his conscious would have allowed him not too. Not sure refusing to save him would've made it better, either. It's a lot.

The Official winces at The Keeper's touch, she tuts, and Darien is reminded that The Official is unfortunately Human, he's- he's not sure he could disconnect from that. Not sure that if getting out of this meant killing The Official, meant even just leaving him to die, that he'd be able to do it.

The Official catches sight of him, an expression Darien doesn't have the energy to try and decipher flickers across his face.

“Fawkes,” He says, “thanks.” Darien knows there's layers there, but he's not up to trying to decipher them right now.

So with a little humour, he addresses The Official, “ _‘First a little, thence to more, he sampled all her killing store._ ’,” The Official frowns at him, “ _‘They put arsenic in his meat, and stared aghast to watch him eat. They shook, they stared, as white's their shirt, as them it was their poison hurt._ ’”

It's kind of a nasty barb, he knows, but not, he thinks, undeserved.

The Official's eyes narrow minutely, but he nods, and then sits up, brushing The Keeper's attention away, “Fawkes, I'm giving you the names of everyone on the Catevari project, work out who he's going after next.”

“We'll bring him in, chief.” Hobbes says, certain and unrelenting.

The Official nods again, and eyes on Darien, he adds, “Bring him in alive if you can, _but_ , your priority is stopping him. Fawkes, we're not giving you a gun, you're not trained, so you'll stay by your partner or out of-”

“What happened to ‘ _he was my friend’_?” Darien asks, slightly more venom then he intends slipping through the cracks of his calm pretence. Though he can't imagine anyone being friends with someone like that. The comparison to frost wasn't off base, he thinks. He just keeps coming back to ice, and winter. Antarctic isolation.

There are people who study the arctic and antarctic, spend six months in darkness and-

“The Charlie I knew wouldn't have attacked me. He's completely gone. Toxins must've done-”

-isolation, just them and every other scientist huddled in the hull against the cold. As a laugh, or a dare, or a tradition, they watch ‘ _The Thing_ ’, he's heard. Nothing like a horror movie literally about the situation they're in to brew paranoia. Nothing like a movie about the apocalypse to watch before complete isolation. Or, an implied apocalypse-

“-more damage than we thought. I'd hoped that he'd still be himself, wake up and thirty years had gone by. He'd need care to handle that, but, no. I suppose it-”

-It's part of ‘ _The Apocalypse Trilogy’,_ after all. So, implied apocalypse, he supposes. It's much more specific in the other two, he thinks, more-

“-couldn't be that easy. We did a horrible thing to him, and-”

Darien's hands fall hard on the table as his thoughts coalesce, he bites- chokes out, “He was awake. The whole time.”

The Official quiets, stares him down, “He wasn't. We checked.”

Darien feels a little hollow, “How often?”

“He was legally brain dead.” The Official says, stern, unrelenting.

“He-” Darien licks his lips, “-left a message on a blanket, _'I can see you. Reality is not what it used to be._ ’ recognise it?”

No one responds, The Keeper frowns a little.

“From ‘ _In The Mouth of Madness’_ , released 199-something, but definitely less than thirty years ago. He couldn't have seen it before hand, so he had to have overheard it on the TV while he was supposedly brain dead. _While he was treated as brain dead_. Well, I suppose why would he have had a vendetta against the Doctors if he didn't recognise them?” There's static in his ears. White noise nonsense. He's _exhausted_.

The Official, for his part, looks horrified. Maybe they actually were friends, Darien thinks bitterly. The Keeper has her hands clapped over her mouth, eyes wide, the realisation seems to be making its way around the room. Hobbes clenches his jaw.

“Your orders are the same.” The Official says, after too long a silence. Darien thinks about protesting, but what good would it do?

He'll just have to improvise if he wants to bring Faulgardy in alive, and he _has to_ bring Faulgardy in alive. There's no other option. He closes his eyes, nods. Ignores the pinprick of a headache behind his eyes, of the pulse at the base of his neck. He can do this. He has to do this.

“Where's those names?” He asks.

-

Seated in the back of Hobbes’ van, Darien goes over the names again. He doesn't need to, he's got the information memorised already. Or, all the important stuff, anyway. Names, faces, and one particular address.

“You're sure about this?” Hobbes asks.

Darien nods, gestures at the laptop Hobbes’ got set up with the relevant file, “He's the Doctor responsible for the injections? He's the next-” his free hand slips one of the pages from the hard copy free, Quicksilver coating it as he slips it beneath his jacket, “-target. I'm sure of it.”

Hobbes nods in turn, “Now, you're staying here, you're not trained, and these are professionals, you'll only be a liability.”

“And I'm sure me staying here has nothing to do with you being paranoid I sympathize with the guy?”

Hobbes flusters.

“Look, I get it, but I can sympathize with his circumstances and also recognise the fact he's murdering people. I'm multifaceted Hobbes.”

“Sure.” Hobbes snorts, “Multi-whatever or not, you're staying here.”

“Course. Your wish is my command, oh superior officer.” Darien dips his head in acknowledgement as Hobbes gets to his feet and slips from the van.

Darien waits till he hears Hobbes leave before Quivksilvering and making his way for the real target. He knows he can still turn this around. He can save Faulgardy.

It's a short enough walk to the actual target's house. Eighty percent of the names he'd been given had been stowed away in the same enforced suburbia, probably a place to stick retired government folk of this calibre, he imagines. A way to keep an eye on them at the same time as ‘rewarding’ them.

He slips over the back of the picket fence. the back doors of the house are sliding glass and he sees Faulgardy stalking the room, and the target, Faulgardy's Keeper, one Eliza Candace, tied up and with tape over her mouth, she's making herself as small as possible, trying to avoid drawing attention to herself. Darien doesn't blame her.

He waits till Faulgardy is looking away, and tries the door, it opens with no difficulty, a degree of complacency often expected in nicer neighbourhoods, and one he can very much take advantage of here. He makes his way over to Candace, footsteps feather light and carefully watching Faulgardy's movement out of the corner of his eyes. First things first, free Ca-

“I can hear you bro.” Faulgardy says.

Darien freezes.

“Come on, don't play coy. I know your trick, you know mine. Let's talk, how'd you put it? ‘ _One experiment to another'?_ ” Faulgardy just about purrs, “Pull up a seat, Darien.”

Obligingly, Darien drops into a chair, and drops the Quicksilver, distantly aware of his growing headache, of his emerging time limit.

“I know where I learnt your trick, so uh, where'd you pick up on mine?” Darien asks, letting none of his tension show in his voice. He won't screw this up. He can't afford to.

“I think you know the answer to that one, bro.” Faulgardy grins, resting one hand on Candace's shoulder, thankfully on the shirt.

He can't piss him off. He can't make a mistake.

“Uh, can't say I do.”

Faulgardy laughs. It sounds empty. TV snow rattling against his brain.

“You'll work it out,” he says.

“Sure.” Darien acquiesces.

Faulgardy's hand shifts, and Darien's halfway to his feet before he realises what a stupid move it is, Faulgardy freezes, “Oh?”

Darien freezes in turn, “You don't need to hurt her.”

“Did they give you one, a Keeper? A sweet little enigma to keep you from running for the hills? To keep you from killing them all when you still could? A little manipulator. So thick with honey you couldn't see the poison underneath.” Faulgardy asks, conversationally, his hands, his fingers slipping so close to her face.

“They did.” Darien admits, “She's fine.”

“Just fine, huh?” Faulgardy laughs, “Hasn't been working on you long then. God, I hated her at first-”

She's in the room, Darien thinks, why address him?

“-but she grew on me, like a fungus, eating up everything I was till I realised I loved her. Course-”

Darien's not sure he likes how Faulgardy's talking. It lingers on his tongue like acid. There's something wrong here. Besides the headache, and the static and the whole terrible situation. There's something wrong with how Faulgardy's talking.

“-by the time I realised I loved her, I couldn't touch her.” Faulgardy's eyes flick to Darien, “Nothing stopping me now, though. Except you.”

“You'd kill her,” Darien points out, weakly.

“I'd end the world to touch her.” Faulgardy says, smile blissful on his face, Candace squirms, but her movements limited, and she can't move much with him so close, “Curse the whole thing to calamity if it let me hold her in my arms.”

“Don't.” Darien says, a little desperate, “Let her go, let's you and me talk.”

“Oh Darien, you really don't get it? She's almost the entire point of this. The last stop. Then I'm bringing it all down with me.”

“I don't follow.”

Faulgardy bares his teeth, “Check your shoe, Darien, that's where they put it for me.”

Darien frowns, but does so, and, unmistakably, in the crook of the shoe, is a flat little mass of technology. A tracker.

“They don't trust you, no matter what they say. I think actions speak louder than words, don't you?”

“We really haven't gotten to tru-” Darien begins, before pain lances, he hits the floor, curls up and grabs desperately at the base of his neck, trying to stop the ice pick ache stabbing at his brain. It releases him, and he's breathing heavy. Notes a hint of carpet burn on his cheek.

“Let me guess, that's the excuse to keep you coming back to them, right? The little gift your Keeper has on offer. Messages in a bottle.” Faulgardy says. Darien ignores him, climbs back to his feet, wonders if his eyes are red yet. Wonders if this will all come crashing around him yet.

He shouldn't have done this.

Faulgardy stares him down when he doesn't answer, frustration evident in the subtle pinch of his lips, “Well, bro, lucky for you, that little tracker only helps me along. You get to see this ride to the end.”

Darien rests against the fireplace, “What ride is that?”

Faulgardy steps away from Candace, opens his shirt, and reveals a bomb taped to his chest, “The only ride left, bro.”

Darien sighs, “Of course.”

This is getting out of hand. At least Candace is away from him, and Darien figures he's got a little protective coating, a little poison resistance, so, he needs to make a move, or at least get Faulgardy on the back foot. He Quicksilvers his eyes, perfect voids, more intimidation than anything immediately useful. He steps forwards, opens his mouth, but Faulgardy cuts him off.

“I know that trick, Darien, eyes on me, or I kill her right now.”

Surprise has him blink away the Quicksilver. He's getting more and more screwed by the minute. He needs-

He catches movement by the stairs, wonders how she got up there.

-his Keeper.

“Well,” Darien allows, “If we're dying here, I'm not doing it alone.”

He offers a hand, Faulgardy actually flinches, “I can't touch you.”

Darien offers a grin that's all teeth, “One experiment to another, you can.”

Faulgardy backs up, step after step, shaking his head.

“I'm not going alone, Charlie. You promised, and you know you can't hurt me. Not in any way that matters.” Darien says, and Faulgardy stares at him, wide eyed.

“I-” the pneumatic _thunk_ of the tranquilizer cuts off whatever he was going to say, Faulgardy stares at it, then looks over at Darien's Keeper and Candace, and the tranquilizer in her hands.

A moment passes, then another, and Faulgardy doesn't fall, doesn't crumple, he _laughs_ , “Guess I've outgrown you then, Eliza.”

Crap.

Faulgardy starts making his way towards them, and desperation has Darien's palm slick with Quicksilver slipping around Faulgardy's hand at about the same instant another attack drops him. He pulls Faulgardy at least some of the way down with him, but that's fine. He waits it out, grits his teeth, does not let go of Faulgardy's hand, even as he feel Faulgardy's flesh start to freeze beneath his grip. Then the attack passes, and Darien stares up at him, and at the eyes that mirror everything that he could become, that might be his current reflection, and desperation turns to a ringing buzz in his ears that has him falling on top of Faulgardy in a lopsided hug.

It's not correct to say he has a plan, it's mostly just impulse, but it's an impulse that works, because bombs are full of chemical components which, rather specifically, don't like it when you freeze all of them. Which he does, Quicksilvering everything and sending threads of it into the cracks of the mechanisms of the bomb. Once he's satisfied he pushes away from Faulgardy, backs up, drops the Quicksilver and hears/feels/senses in some innate way the crackle-shift of it breaking apart and dropping away.

Candace looks a little confused, but seems to be handling things well. His Keeper is more cautious, one hand on her own tranquilizer.

Helpfully, Darien points at the bomb, “Froze it.”

His Keeper raises an eyebrow.

“You uh, got any not-go-mad juice? Cause I think I'm straddling the line here a li-”

Faulgardy screams, enraged, and launches for him, nails more claws then anything, and Darien can just about _see_ the beading toxins. Poison. Imagine it in his flesh. In his blood. Necrotic flesh. Breaking down cells as the blood cells asphyxiate. Coagulate in his veins till he just about chokes on it. Suffocates in theory. Poison cold as night, but burning with the rage of a man who has been made into a monster. He thinks of poisonous flowers. Of fairytales and myths. Of Medusa killed by a mirror. He thinks of-

The shot is deafening. It's always so quiet in TV shows, but it cracks against his ears and he see's Faulgardy flinch, like he'd been hit. Knows he has been. Darien reactively turns invisible as Faulgardy falls against him, choking on rage, and the bullet wound becomes obvious as he tips over. Slug buried in his spine. Probably it'll paralyze him if it doesn't kill him. It almost seems cruel.

Darien stares for a long moment.

“Darien, I have the Counter-agent, but I do need to be able to see you.” His Keeper says.

It takes him a second to process. He steps out of Faulgardy's reach, drops the sense of Quicksilver. Sheds his second skin, and numbly offers his arm to his Keeper. Candace for her part looks just as stunned about firing the bullet as Darien feels. The needle pulls out, the Counter-agent burns.

It takes a moment, but the exhaustion hits, and he drops with it. Sitting on the floor. His Keeper kneels in front of him, checks his eyes.

“Darien, are you okay?” She asks, voice soft.

No. He doesn't think so.

He laughs a little hysterically, “It's been a long day.”

“It has.” She agrees.

“You were up forty-six hours, have you slept?” He asks.

“There were more important things then sleeping.”

He nods, once, “Are you allowed to take sick days- am I allowed to take sick days? We should take a sick day tomorrow. Sleep today off.”

“I don't think The Official would be terribly happy with that Darien.”

“He could take a sick day too. Just, nobody come in tomorrow. Today sucks.”

“It hasn't been great.” His Keeper sighs, “Let's get you out of here.”

-

He wakes up to someone hammering on his door, answers it to find Hobbes staring up at him, expression unplaceable.

“Explain it to me.” Hobbes says.

“Explain what?” Darien says, tired. More focused than yesterday, but still drained.

“Why'd you run off like that? You- Why split off? I'm your partner. I'm your senior officer. Why didn't you talk to me?” Hobbes asks, and dimly, Darien realises the expression on his face is worry. Regret.

“I-” he's not quite sure where to go from here, “I could be him. I could end up like him. He- he had my eyes, and, if- if I could redeem him. Bring him back alive, and he got better, then- then I could- I'd be- I had to prove-”

He sighs, scrubs at his hair.

“Look, I was exhausted, I wasn't thinking straight, it seemed like a good idea at the time, but it was-”

Hobbes interrupts, “You won't end up like him, partner. Not if Bobby Hobbes has anything to say about it.”

“Oh,” says Darien, “Thanks.”

They stand in the doorway a moment, before Hobbes adds, “Also, I'm picking you up for work, it's nine and you're supposed to be in already.”

“Uh, right.” Darien looks over his shoulder, “Come inside, I've got to shower and stuff, but, then we can go?”

“Fine by me.”

They get in to work about a half hour later, Darien very uncertain about how to deal with the enigma that is Hobbes. They're called down to the basement, the lab, which is apparently called The Keep, because of course it is, where The Keeper is tending The Official's wound. Darien steals a clean table and sits on it.

“I won't say that was well done, because it wasn't.” The Official begins, “But it could have been much worse. Fawkes, in the future stay by your partner and keep him updated on your plans, Hobbes, keep a closer eye on Fawkes. Otherwise, there's nothing much to note. Faulgardy died of his injury, Milton's death is being packaged in a way that makes sense to the general public and leaves out the classified stuff.”

The Official sighs, “Now, Fawkes, why did you lie to Hobbes and run off after Faulgardy by yourself?”

Darien squirms, confessing his reasons to Hobbes after just waking up is one thing, but to his technical boss and technical jailor is a whole other thing.

He shrugs a shoulder, “I was running on very little sleep and the beginnings of QSM, sir. Seemed like a good idea at the time. I wanted the best chance of bringing him in alive, and did-”

“Cut the crap, Fawkes.” The Official cuts in, “The real reason.”

Darien narrows his eyes, “You already know it, sir. I had some insight into his actions.”

The Official chuckles, “In the future, don't try to lie to me. Anyone have any questions?”

“I do,” The Keeper speaks up, “Darien, how are you feeling? You seemed very out of it yesterday, even considering all the...reasons for that.”

“I'm fine. Yesterday was just a lot.” He shrugs, “You good?”

“I'm fine.” She replies, looking away very suddenly.

“Anyone going to ask if I'm is fine?” Hobbes jumps in.

“Are you?” The Keeper asks, a little exasperated.

“Yes,” Hobbes says, grinning and self satisfied, “Thank you for asking.”

Darien might hate it, but he's almost comfortable in this little section of casual interactions, friendly dialogue. He knows he's only here because he has no alternative. Knows it's against his will, but, he's comfortable, and, he thinks maybe as long as Hobbes and his Keeper are on his side, he'll be okay. Faulgardy isn't a prophecy, or an inevitability. Just a potential, and with any luck, an unlikely one.

“Any other questions?” The Official asks, sighing.

Hobbes hums, suddenly looking curious, “How'd Faulgardy know Fawkes’ name, when he attacked The Official?”

Darien thinks back on it, frowning, “Did he get my file somewhere? He knew I could turn invisible too.”

The Official looks worried, “I don't know how it's possible, but I'll have Eberts look into it.” He stands up as The Keeper finishes tending to him, “Hobbes, you're on your usual work, Darien, you're getting a physical.”

Darien blinks, “Sorry?”

Hobbes and The Official are already leaving, The Keeper grabs his arm, “Come on, we've got to get a baseline for you, and how the Quicksilver is affecting you, and that means a physical, Darien.”

Crap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some fun facts, Catevari, is, as far as I can tell, a completely made up term. I did some research, and I-man was the only source for it, beyond a Supernatural fanfic, which a friend verified referred to I-man as the source. 
> 
> I looked into myths of people poisoning themselves to become immune, or to secrete it, the only thing that really came up was Mithridates IV, referenced in the poem there. Course, that was just from Wikipedia, better sources found not much else, I saw some stuff about nurses in Rome I believe? Poisoning young girls to prevent them growing into rivals, but, despite the rest of that site having sources, that section lacked anything, and searching further by myself brought up nothing.
> 
> The chapter name comes from the poem as well, I considered using Mithridates instead, but the poem fits the usage of quotes in the prior two chapters better.
> 
> Other then that, despite being mostly a retelling, this chapter sets up a lot of stuff for where things will greatly deviate later.

**Author's Note:**

> Each *Episode will be its own chapter, but this doesn't mean the story will be self contained, events will be referenced and continue to have lasting impact after they happen. Things will lead into eachother and the narrative will be limited and altered by the use of a different medium. Events will be fed through Darien's viewpoint and bias, if he wasn't there for something, he'll either mention it offhand, or speculate. Some events will get additional supplementary chapters in another work exploring other characters point of view of what happened, especially if Darien's perspective was very limited or biased, but ultimately, the story will mostly be confined to his perspective.
> 
> Each season will be its own story, with a central theme. 'Season 1' has growth, acceptance and change, but will mostly be about adapting to new and unfortunate circumstances.
> 
> *- Some of the Chapters will be completely original events, exploring made up cases, or what goes on between episodes, and focusing even more on inter character relationships and feelings. Not that there won't still be plenty of action.
> 
> :3


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